


Complementary

by thisprettywren



Series: Spectrum [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, M/M, SenseVerse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>com·ple·men·tar·i·ty - (noun /ˌkämpləmenˈtaritē/)</b>: a relation between two opposite states or principles that together exhaust the possibilities; the interrelation of reciprocity whereby one thing supplements or depends on the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Redshift

**Author's Note:**

> As with Quintessential, the formatting I've used makes a mess of the AO3 download feature. To try to compensate for that, I've made my own downloadable files which will be updated as I add chapters. You can choose from one of two formats: [epub](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ocvq7xbcia6lxte/ComplementaryComplete.epub) or [pdf](https://www.dropbox.com/s/doxhfwy3rfspqy2/ComplementaryComplete.pdf). (complete)
> 
> By request, I've started doing some commentary/director's cut-type posts dealing with this AU. Until/unless I can find a way to bring them over here that won't be annoying, you can find them by going to the [Senseverse Commentary tag on my tumblr](http://thisprettywren.tumblr.com/tagged/senseverse-commentary).
> 
> Infinite thanks to HiddenLacuna and Roane for handholding (even more than usual here) and general patience and brilliance, along with Teahigh, LapOtter, and several other folks over at #innercircle who put up with my flailing. Not to mention Airynothing and her eagle eyes (... though I continue to fuss after she gives me the all-clear, so any mistakes you may find are in no way her fault).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the conceit of this chapter (as well as infinite thanks for beta work/handholding) goes to HiddenLacuna. She may not have written (most of) the words, but as a conductor of light she is unparalleled.
> 
> (and by "light" I mean "penises.")

Sherlock blinks, twice, then drops his gaze from John's face to the TID clutched in his outstretched hand.

"Are you—" he begins, but falters. How had he intended to finish that sentence? He looks up at John's face again and John raises one eyebrow, eyes dark blue and shining with amusement. 

When Sherlock holds out a hand to accept the TID, John's tongue appears, a soft, wet shift of the muscle behind the seam of his lips. Sherlock wants, very much, to press their mouths together, but something in the firm set of John's shoulders makes him hold back.

John jerks his head down, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. Sherlock frowns, momentarily confused, but— right. The TID. He swallows and turns his hand over to read the screen.  


  
Sherlock. You're going to read every one of these out loud to me. I'll do as I'm told. Nod your head if you want to go on.  


  


Sherlock swallows, and nods. Nods again. Swipes his thumb across the screen to advance to the next screen.

  


  
You control the pace. If you want to stop, all you have to do is say so. But no going backward, and no doing anything you haven't read aloud. Except where it says otherwise, keep your hands on the armrests. Tell me you understand.  


  


John has— John has _planned this_. Sherlock stares down at the TID. John has planned this, has given Sherlock his _words_ — _illegal_ , whispers a voice somewhere in the back of Sherlock's mind; it's illegal for Sherlock to be using John's device like this—just as he's about to— to—

"I understand."

Sherlock's voice doesn't crack, quite, which is something. John's face breaks into a wide smile. He swings his arms to clasp his hands behind his back and stands perfectly still, waiting. He doesn't take his eyes from Sherlock's face until Sherlock clears his throat and goes on to the next slide.  


  
This is the last one you don't have to read out loud. Go sit down in your chair.  


  


"John, I—" Sherlock begins. John just stares back at him, face entirely open, devoid of expectation. Entirely serene, while Sherlock's own pulse is distracting and heavy in his throat.

Sherlock walks past John and moves over to the chair with slow, deliberate steps. He turns and seats himself with as much grace as he can muster. It is, he discovers, a great deal less than he would like.

John doesn't move. He doesn't even turn round. Sherlock watches his back, taking in the upright line of his spine, the relaxed flex of his fingers where his hands are clasped together just above the curve of his arse, the soft line of hair across the nape of his neck and the tender slice of skin it exposes over the collar of his shirt.  


  
I want you to come and kneel in front of me.  


  


_Oh_.

The strip of skin at the back of John's neck is golden-brown, paler than when they'd first met. Sherlock's tongue is thick and clumsy with the remembered clean-salt taste of it.

"John—" he begins, then drops his eyes back to the screen. Closes them, briefly, then opens them again. As if he needs to be able to see the words to read them. "I want you to come and kneel in front of me."

At that, John moves. The gleam in his eye as he approaches is unmistakeable, amusement and anticipation all at once, and Sherlock finds himself shifting his knees wider even before John reaches him. John lowers himself to the carpet in front of Sherlock's chair and doesn't— doesn't touch him. Doesn't even brace himself on Sherlock's thighs, just smiles into Sherlock's eyes and drops straight down with his hands still behind him. _Christ_. 

John's eyes are very wide, and very clear, and it takes Sherlock a moment to remember why he isn't moving.

"Unbutton my top shirt button," Sherlock says, reading it off the screen. John inches closer, just a bit, and leans in. The backs of John's knuckles nudge against Sherlock's clavicle, a brief flare of warmth that fades before he's even really processed it, then John eases himself back to restore the air between them.

A swipe of Sherlock's thumb. "Now my— my left cuff," he says, mild surprise, and watches John reach up to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's wrist: broad across the jut of Sherlock's bone, tanned in contrast to his pale skin. He flips Sherlock's hand palm-up and brushes his fingertips over Sherlock's wrist, sweeping upward from his palm to the raised bumps of his variant marker, a light touch that shivers up Sherlock's forearm. 

John slides the two buttons of Sherlock's cuff open with quick flicks of thumb and forefinger. He's grinning. This close, Sherlock can see the shudder of the pulse in his throat.

He sits back, and Sherlock swallows. Has to do it again, with John's eyes so close, before he can trust words to his tongue. He drops his eyes to the screen, and— 

"Really, John, this is perverse." 

John just licks his lips, and grins wider, and otherwise doesn't move.

Sherlock allows himself the indulgence of rolling his eyes. "Fine. Now my bottom shirt button." As soon as he voices the command John obeys, as promised. Just that and nothing more, which is equal parts endearing and infuriating.

Two more shirt buttons give way until there's just one left, and Sherlock begins to relax into the rhythm of it. John _planned this_ , in minute detail. Where? Sherlock's mind practically screams the question at him. Would he have been here, in the sitting room, considering the excruciating mechanics of their bodies together while Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa? Could he possibly have been so oblivious? Sherlock casts his mind back, but while he can recall a hundred evenings in which the two of them had sat in this very room with John thumbing away at his TID, he can conjure nothing to differentiate the last few nights.

If not here, where? At the surgery? Sherlock closes his eyes, imagining it: John, at his desk between patients, planning out the next thing he would— God. The next thing he would make Sherlock ask—order—him to do. Or… or upstairs, perhaps, at night, thinking about Sherlock reading off _I want you to come and kneel in front of me_ while he stared up at his ceiling in the dark. Were his hands busy, then? Was he typing, or was he— was— 

Sherlock shifts his hips in the seat and forces his eyes open. He's clutching John's TID so hard his knuckles are standing white beneath his skin. There's something fitting about that, he supposes, how tightly he's holding on to John's words, the words John has chosen to hear in Sherlock's voice.

 _I could be arrested,_ he reminds himself, _for even holding this_ , and swipes his thumb to the next screen, impatient to be out of his clothing. Impatient to have John out of his; a wrench in his stomach at the unexpected thought that maybe John didn't plan for that at all, that perhaps John's entire scenario doesn't contain any more of John's skin than that already visible, the pedestrian, public areas of hands and wrists and throat, his face. 

Sherlock wants—needs; God, he needs—more than that. _Please_.  


  
Put your mouth on my ear.  


  


It isn't what he expected at all. When he reads the words aloud Sherlock can hear the strain in his own voice, which is absurd. There's still a button firmly closed on his shirt. Sherlock clenches his fingers hard into the material of the armrests as John raises himself up, leans in, and— and _oh_ , John's breath warm and light against the thin skin of his neck, just below his earlobe. Warm, wet, a mere hint of something that Sherlock knows must be his tongue, a slip of sensation that doesn't quite tip over into the frustrating, infuriating blankness. Then breath, more of it, warm and soft, shifting the bases of his follicles; just enough. Sherlock can't possibly keep his eyes open; he shifts in his chair, his blood pulsing loud in his ears, low and heavy in his groin, and that's— that's—

"Kiss me," he hears himself say, breathless. "John, please, I. Kiss me." 

The warm-soft press of John's breath stops, just for a moment, and Sherlock exhales hard, but— but no, but _oh_ , it starts again, right where it had been before. Sherlock gives himself over to it for the space of two shaky breaths before he forces his eyes open, wrenches his head away to look down at the screen.

"Now you're going to kiss my mouth," he reads, almost laughing with relief. John shifts forward to balance his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and leans in, and in, and in. He's laughing outright, which ought to be humiliating, but Sherlock supposes he can forgive him because his tongue is already curling its way behind Sherlock's teeth. Sherlock's focus narrows to the joined press of their mouths, warm and soft and wet, his tongue with all of its nerve endings shivering searingly to life when he swipes it over the smooth skin on the inside of John's lower lip. John's teeth close on it, lightly, just enough sharp focus to register, and Sherlock's breath breaks into something formless and unashamedly needful.

And he should care, he supposes. He should. But instead he just forces his eyes open, because he wants _more_ , and _now_ , and to get that he has to read what John has written on the next screen.

When he reads it, he groans, because— really.

"Now my right cuff," he bites out, with John's mouth still close enough that he can feel their lips against each other when he speaks. John leans back immediately, obviously ready—prepared; of course he is, the smug _bastard_ —his lips dark and slightly swollen from biting but still twisted up into a smile.

Sherlock doesn't watch him undo the button on his cuff. He just closes his eyes and fights to keep his hands down, when he needs to feel his own fingers twist in his hair. That, at least, if he could have nothing else, he could— but no. No.

After a while, when he can, Sherlock opens his eyes. 

"Undo my last shirt button, then remove my shirt." And that's a relief, he supposes, but it seems to take _ages_ , long precious seconds with John's eyes mere inches from his own as he uses both hands to push open the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and down his arms. Sherlock has to lean forward and perform an awkward and entirely undignified wiggle before his arms come free, and he nearly loses his grip on the TID in the course of it, but— it's fine. It's _fine_. 

In the end he's bare-chested, looking down at John still in shirtsleeves with his chin tipped up so their eyes meet each other across entirely too much air.

There's a faint, dark stain beneath John's skin, spreading downward along his throat to disappear below his collar. Sherlock's stomach twists, because he will never know just what shade John blushes, like this, and that's— that's unacceptable, and unavoidable, and entirely unfair.

Sherlock wants, more than anything, to kiss John's mouth.

"Um," Sherlock says. "John, I think—" But no, asking isn't allowed. It doesn't matter; his tongue tangles around the words, a clumsy fall into compliance. 

John waits, but when Sherlock doesn't say _stop_ (and he can see the words in his head, _If you want to stop,_ and _no going backward_ , and he doesn't want— doesn't want either of those, not at all), he inclines his head toward his TID where Sherlock's fingers are wrapped around it. His eyebrows come up, just a little, which makes his forehead crease in a way that's entirely irrelevant and makes Sherlock's throat feel very tight.

"You are going to remove my shoes," Sherlock reads, "first the left and then the right." John drops his head and Sherlock is left blinking at the curve of his neck, the slight shift of his hair as he moves. John actually unties the laces, which is far more time than Sherlock wants to spend with John's _hands_ on his _feet_ , and not even— but then he swipes his thumb across the screen and reads out, "I want you to kiss my neck, slowly, very lightly." The words come out too fast. John moves with equal speed, one hand twining in Sherlock's hair to tip his head back.

Sherlock groans, unashamedly, open-mouthed.

 _Yes. Yes, perfect._ The soft puff of air that is John's laugh tells him that he's said it aloud, which— which is fine, really, isn't it? Perfect in its own way, to say those words with John's fingers sparking sensation in his scalp, with the wet warmth of John's breath shivering outward across Sherlock's skin, just shy of too much. And of course John knows where that line is, of _course_. Sherlock can't decide what he wants most: for this to go on indefinitely, or to find out what John wants him to say next.

Breathless minutes later, curiosity wins out.

"Socks," Sherlock reads. "Really, John, is that _entirely_ necessary, that you would need to _specify_ —" He slides his thumb across the screen, impatient and a little breathless, while John stoops to pull Sherlock's socks down over his feet.  


  
Of course it's necessary. Tonight you're only going to do what you're told. You're very good at doing what you're told.  


  


Sherlock hears his voice shape the words—the particular words John chose to hear in Sherlock's voice— and John's eyes flash up to meet his, his cheeks darkening.

Sherlock says, very low: "All right," and advances to the next screen. 

"Use your nails on the sole of my foot," he reads, and even though he knows it's pointless, he can't help protesting. "Really, I doubt that will—" 

But John is already sitting back to draw Sherlock's right foot into his lap, balancing Sherlock's heel against the flexed muscle of his thigh. John keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face and brushes the backs of his nails, slowly, up along the delicate architecture of Sherlock's arch. Once, twice, and Sherlock's brain lights up like an anatomy textbook, the medial fascia and plantar aponeurosis sparking to life. His foot twitches of its own accord but John is quicker, the fingers of his right hand encircling Sherlock's ankle to hold it in place.

Sherlock's gaze slides up the long line of his own leg to where the hard shape of his own erection is beginning to show below the tidy, infuriating buckle on his belt. His blood is very heavy against the inside of his skin.

 _This shouldn't be working_ , Sherlock thinks, mind's eye conjuring the spiderweb network of nerve endings in the sole of his foot. John drags his nail up again, igniting another shiver of sensation that skirts the line between too much and nowhere near enough.

Sherlock's mouth shapes the next words precisely. "Press yourself against me. Your own pace, but don't stop."

He's still trying to puzzle out what that even means when John grips Sherlock's ankle in both hands and slides Sherlock's foot into the crease of his thighs, shifting himself up and forward. John's eyes fall closed, his lips parting around a harsh, breathy inhale, and Sherlock hears himself make a small sound of astonishment because he can feel John pressing up against him, the hard length of him through the infuriating barrier of his trousers. And it's surprising, somehow, that John might be enjoying this so much, might be enjoying what he's making Sherlock order him to do, and that's—

John presses his hips forward and back by inches, the dark flush running high along his cheekbones. When John opens his eyes they're dark, too, locked on Sherlock's and gleaming. The movements of his hips are coming faster, hard enough that the warm press of contact whites out into nothing. But , no, not nothing, or not precisely: Sherlock can still feel the echoes of it along the bones of his leg, all the way to his hip, perfect counterpoint to the heavy thud of his own pulse.

John's lips have gone soft, his breath bursting past them in short little puffs. Sherlock can see the tension beginning to coil along his spine, gathering toward release. Sherlock has to tear his eyes away, forcing himself to look down at the screen, because he needs to know how John has planned this out, what end he has set for himself, it's, he— he _needs_ —

"Let go," Sherlock reads. "John, let go _now_." 

There's a thud, heard but not felt, as his heel strikes the ground, which isn't— isn't what he meant at all. 

Sherlock raises his eyes, disbelieving, to see John with both of his hands pressed flat against the tops of his own thighs, fingers digging into the muscle, open-mouthed. The sound of his breath is harsh; he's _panting_. He raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and his breath shakes into something like a laugh.

"That— that isn't what I meant," Sherlock protests, breathes. John must hear the petulance in his tone because he laughs again without lifting his head, his shoulders shaking. Then his hips twitch forward and he grips his own thighs harder, his fingers white to the second knuckle. He nods toward the TID, and Sherlock just blinks back at him for a moment before reading.

"I'm going to remove my trousers now." 

It isn't until he hears himself say it that Sherlock parses out the subject of the sentence, which is— right.

He stares down at his own hand where it's resting against the top of the armrest. He sets the TID down, then stretches his fingers and begins to move his hands with an odd sense that they don't quite belong to him. John doesn't move, not an inch, while Sherlock works open his belt and the zip on his trousers, lifting his hips to slide them down past his hips and over his legs. One layer more exposed, the bulge in the front of his shorts is obvious. It should, by rights, be humiliating, but when John sees it his eyes flare and he licks his lips and all Sherlock feels is the warm pulse of his own desire, low at the base of his spine.

Sherlock's trousers fall down his shins until he can kick them off to one side, where they land in an untidy pile of material that is no sooner out of sight than completely forgotten. John's shoulders rise and fall with his breath once, twice, then he tips his chin up to meet Sherlock's gaze. His eyes are dark and heavy, eloquent with the effort it's costing him to stay where he is, and Sherlock— Christ, Sherlock wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him, which is just as obviously what John wants too. 

But these are John's rules, after all, and if what he wants is a challenge, then that's what Sherlock will give him.

Sherlock lets his left hand drift slowly down the inside of his thigh, then twists his wrist to slide his fingertips back until he's cupping the weight of himself in his palm. He cups his hips up once, deliberately—and it feels like _nothing_ , too many sensitive nerves for there to be any hope, even with the dampening barrier of his cotton briefs to intervene—but it's enough to make John shift his hips, once to each side, his tongue making an appearance once again.

Sherlock holds his gaze, very steady. The absence of sensation under the touch of his own hand is oddly steadying, the most familiar thing that's happened since they started all this. It's grounding enough that Sherlock understands, suddenly, just what sort of game John is playing; he sees the opening where John has left him a chance to make a move.

Sherlock releases his grip—John blinks, far too many times—and moves his hand, as slowly as he can stand, until it's hovering over the TID, still face-down on the armrest.

"I think I see where you're going with this." Sherlock's voice is low and curled through with amusement. "Whatever might you have planned next? Or, more to the point: what would you have anticipated wanting to do next?" John's eyes slip closed. "No," he says sharply, "keep them open. Keep looking at me." He waits; after a moment, John's eyes flicker open. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "How accurately did you predict your own desire, at this point? Did you try to give yourself what you thought you'd want? Because I can tell you, John, that if it were up to me I'd want your hands on me right now. Or maybe your hands on yourself. You must be _aching_." John's throat moves convulsively as he swallows. His fingers tighten against the rigid muscle of his thigh. "Yes, that's what I'd tell you to do. I'd tell you to use your hand, bring yourself off while I watch. I'd clean it up with my tongue, after." It catches him by surprise; he's never even considered things like this before, but hearing his voice shape the words is enough that something dark and surprising, low in his belly, sparks to life. He's speaking too quickly. He _wants_. "Did you plan for your own release at all? Because I would have. I want you to. I could let you use my mouth. My mouth is _very sensitive_ , John, you can't possibly—" 

John's head drops forward on his neck, his exhale shattering into something harsh and ragged.

" _Look at me_." Sherlock bites out the words with all the authority he can muster. His reward is immediate: John's eyes, blazing above his flushed-dark cheeks. _Yes_. "But it isn't up to me." Sherlock takes a slow, deliberate breath. Then another, and another, until he can say, almost casually: "So let's see what's next for both of us, shall we?" and flip the TID over.

He has to focus hard to read the screen; his vision seems a bit grey around the edges. He's beginning to suspect the distribution of his blood is not quite what he's used to.  


  
Breathe on my skin, anywhere you like, but don't touch me.  


  


Sherlock's brow creases in puzzlement. "Really, John? That doesn't sound very—" but he breaks off when he sees the expression on John's face, the soft curl of his lips. John inches his way forward between Sherlock's legs—they spread wider, just a little; involuntary—and braces himself, setting his palms flat against the chair on either side of Sherlock's shins.

John meets Sherlock's eyes and inhales, deep. Sherlock takes in the lift of his shoulders and the flex of his upper back as his ribcage expands. Then John arcs his neck downward in an efficient, compact curve that brings his mouth inches from the skin of Sherlock's right thigh. He licks his lips, parts them, and exhales.

Sherlock's fingers clench hard against the armrests. John's breath is warm and soft on his skin, gently ruffling the follicles of the thin dusting of hair on his upper thigh. Sherlock's body responds immediately, his pulse quickening in his ears, hard and heavy in his groin. Sherlock shifts, not meaning to, dropping his head back against the top of the chair when John moves so that the air is hitting the inside of Sherlock's thigh, high up near the crease of his hip. His knees fall outward and— Christ, _Christ_ , he must have been the one who made that noise, but he can't imagine how he did when he can't seem to get any air in his chest.

The sensation stops, abruptly. Sherlock lifts his head to meet John's gaze, open-mouthed. John wraps his hands around Sherlock's calves, just below the knee, and _pulls_ , tugging Sherlock forward so that his hips are at the edge of the seat.

Sherlock forces himself to look down: the pale slope of his own belly, softened by the curve of his back as gravity settles it into its new angle; John, bracing himself over Sherlock's body, grinning. _John_. The muscles of Sherlock's stomach tense in anticipation. John inhales and dips his head again. This time the air hits somewhere below and to the left of Sherlock's navel, and he— he doesn't mean to move, he doesn't, but he needs to get his fingers in John's hair, he needs to— 

John's left hand darts up, his fingers closing around the narrow column of Sherlock's wrist before Sherlock even consciously registers that he's reaching out. His mouth compresses into a thin line.

Sherlock swallows, his eyes on John's hand, the contrast of John's tanned fingers against his own pale skin. His voice, when he speaks, is very low. "Without touching me. I believe the instructions were quite clear in that regard."

John's eyebrows creep up toward his hairline. After a moment, he releases his grip on Sherlock's wrist. Neither of them drop their hands; they hover, mere inches of air between their palms.

Sherlock stares at the spot where John's pulse is visible in his throat. The movement there is rapid; as rapid as the fire licking beneath Sherlock's skin. "Presumably there are consequences for disobeying an order."

John's eyes flare very wide. After what feels like a long time, his tongue appears to swipe along his lower lip.

Sherlock hums, feigning careful consideration. Then he wraps his own hand around John's forearm and pulls John's hand against his mouth. He breathes the words against John's palm: "I suppose, given that it was an accident, a quid pro quo will suffice." Then he parts his lips to slip his tongue across Johns' skin, tasting the faint bitterness of it, imagining the prickle of salt he knows must be there.

Sherlock brings his left hand up, slowly, and hooks it below John's right arm, wrapping his fingers around the back of John's ribcage. Then he tugs hard, up and in, pulling John off-balance; John has to scramble his knees up onto the cushion on either side of Sherlock's hips to avoid falling forward into Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock keeps his grip on John's wrist while John settles his weight until he's sitting astride Sherlock's thighs. He slides his other hand up the back of John's neck, threading his fingers into the short hair at John's nape, applying just enough pressure that John leans in until Sherlock can press his mouth against John's ear.

"One transgression of mine for one of yours," he whispers, "should restore the balance, wouldn't you say?" He licks at John's ear—hot, close; a secret, sharply bitter taste—then slides down to scrape his teeth along the thick curve of his earlobe while John shifts against him, breathless.

Sherlock releases his grip on John's wrist. John's eyes open, flashing fire. He moves too quickly for Sherlock to anticipate, pressing Sherlock's forearms back against the armrests before Sherlock can even react. John presses down, once— _stay_ —and Sherlock nods, swallowing around nothing. He stares down at his own body—John's hands on his skin, the lamp casting shadows that deepen the contrast between them, outline the ridged muscles of John's forearms.

" _John_ ," Sherlock manages to say, once he remembers how to breathe.

John spreads his fingers and begins to run his hands up the long lines of Sherlock's arm. He's pressing too hard for Sherlock to feel the touch; this isn't, Sherlock realises, for him. John's eyes are gleaming, alight. Eager. _God_.

John's hands continue on their path until he can bring both palms flat against Sherlock's shoulders. John balances there, using his weight to pin Sherlock against the back of the chair, holding him trapped in place with pressure too hard and heavy for Sherlock to feel.

Sherlock tips his chin up. John holds his gaze, steady, for the space of several long breaths. Then his eyes flutter closed and he drops his head forward, lips parting around a shattered exhale.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that it's because he's shifting his hips, pressing an unseen part of himself against Sherlock's body. Sherlock cranes his neck but the tails of John's shirt are in the way. His next exhale shapes itself into a growl, low and irrationally furious. He can't feel it, and John's shirt is _in the way_. He twists his shoulders beneath John's hands. John shifts his hips again and tightens his grip, tipping his head back to bare his throat, a long stretch of pale skin that seems impossibly far away. 

Sherlock opens his mouth but his tongue is thick, wordless. He clenches his fingers into the armrests and tries to force his breath into something a bit more even. This is the game, isn't it? He can't touch. He wants to touch. He shouldn't want to, it shouldn't matter, but—

John's lips part to reveal the faint wet gleam of his tongue behind them. The blush is rising once again from below the collar of his shirt, staining his throat dark, gathering heat to spill outward into the few inches of air between them. Sherlock wants to scrape his tongue along the faint rasp of stubble he knows is there, make the colour stand out, taste the way John's breath and pulse shudder beneath the thin barrier of his skin. He twists his shoulders again, and his hips, and John's inhale shatters into a gasp. 

John's eyes snap open and he all but shoves himself backward until he's standing in front of the chair, his chest heaving. 

Sherlock spreads his fingers wide against the tops of the armrests and unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "You could— you could get undressed." He's past knowing whether the words sound as breathless as they feel.

One side of John's lip curls up, but he shakes his head, once. He raises a hand to rub it against the back of his neck in a visible effort at composure. The knees of John's trousers are creased from where they've been pressed against the floor, the hard shape of his arousal even more pronounced now that he's upright. 

John follows the line of Sherlock's gaze, and looks pointedly toward where Sherlock's own arousal is straining against the thin cotton of his pants. Sherlock swallows hard, and a soft smile slides across John's mouth. Then he drops onto his hands and knees and leans forward to stretch one arm beneath the armchair. 

When John kneels up again, he's holding his TID. Sherlock reaches out for it automatically, but John hesitates, turning it over in his hand and pressing his lips into a thin line. Whatever he was considering he must decide against it, because after a moment he leans in to set the device in Sherlock's upturned palm, his face eloquent with wry amusement.

The message is clear: _Hang onto this._ John closes his blunt fingers over Sherlock's pale ones. Sherlock loses several heartbeats blinking down at their joined hands wrapped around John's TID: John's words in his mouth, his own tongue giving them shape. 

"Sorry." Sherlock's tongue is thick, clumsy against the backs of his teeth. "My mistake. Won't happen again."

John's mouth opens in a soundless laugh. He drops back onto his heels and scrubs his hand over his face, again and again. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and looks down at the screen. "I am going to remove my pants now. You're going to retrieve the bottle from your bedside table. When you get back I'll be waiting precisely as you left me, except that I'll be naked."

John exhales hard and takes a step backward, then another. He gives a tight downward jerk of his chin, then spins on his heel and moves away toward the door. Sherlock watches his back as he goes; his steps are slow but steady, the material of his trousers pulling tight across his hips with each step.

Sherlock casts a sideways glance at his own clothes, pooled in an untidy heap on the sitting room carpet. It ought to make him feel exposed, but instead he finds himself thinking of his gloves, tucked neatly into the pockets of his coat. His mind conjures the image of his own gloved hands, fingers spread wide, running over the contours of John's hips. The material would be thick enough, dampen enough sensation, to feel the shape of John's body, the warmth of his skin.

Sherlock hooks his fingers underneath the waistband of his pants, bracing his feet and lifting his hips to slide them down over his thighs. His exposed cock curves upward toward his navel, flushed dark, twitching slightly in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock stares down at it, his mind struggling to connect the sight with the deep, pulsing need pulling at the base of his spine. There's a faint gleam of wetness at the tip; almost without thinking, he lets his left hand drift toward it. He sets the tip of his fingertip against the underside, a featherlight touch.

A spark of fire flares bright behind his eyes, then fades to nothing.

Far beneath his skin, Sherlock can feel the heavy pulse of his arousal, hard enough that his cock jerks with it, but at his own hand, that's the most he can get. As ever. Ordinarily a mere annoyance, a drive satisfied by his unconscious in sleep if at all, but now it's a steady, undeniable throb of heat in his veins, so strong he can practically hear it.

There's a drop of moisture gathering at the tip of his erection. Sherlock swipes his finger through it then stares down at his fingertip, the faint wet gleam of it, and brings his finger to his mouth. The taste is sharply bitter on his tongue, entirely unfamiliar. He'd have called it unpleasant, except that— except that it's _compelling_. Sherlock closes his eyes and curls his tongue into the ridges in his skin. It's _almost_ as though— 

There's a sharp tug at Sherlock's scalp, mute-white pressure that forces his head back, drags his mouth open so that his forefinger slips free and his hand falls against his thigh. Sherlock opens his eyes to see John looking down at him. His mouth is twisted into something that's probably meant to be disapproval, but the effect is entirely ruined by the dark gleam of lust in his eyes.

John releases his grip on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock looks down at his hand—the end of his finger still shining wet, ringed with marks where he'd been holding it between his teeth—then lifts his hand to set his palm deliberately back atop the armrest.

"Really, John." he says, trying to inject an edge of mockery into his tone despite the heavy thud of his pulse at the base of his throat. "A lubricant stash in the bedside table? How thoroughly predictable."

John just presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows, not quite laughing. He holds up the bottle with a little shake, then settles himself on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair. He's still dressed, which is _infuriating_.

Sherlock's thumb leaves a faint smear of moisture on the screen of John's TID.  


  
Get a cushion for your knees. You're going to be there for a while.  


  


Sherlock's voice falters on the words, because he— if— _oh_.

John grins, a bright flash of teeth, and leans over to snatch a pillow from the sofa. The stretch of his arm elongates the muscles of his shoulders and torso. Sherlock watches their compact shift beneath the thin material of his shirt, and has to bite at his lower lip to avoid giving rise to the thoroughly undignified sound gathering low in his throat.

His breath abandons him entirely when he tries to read the next screen. "Now I want you to open your trousers and pull your underwear down, but don't remove them. I want to see how you—" Sherlock swallows hard, his mouth unaccountably dry. "I want to see how you touch yourself when you think about me."

The blush that suffuses John's skin is sudden, spreading from the base of John's throat to the tips of his ears in the space required for one unsteady inhale. His hands are shaking, just a little, as he opens his belt and begins to work his buttons. When he draws the material of his trousers apart the hard shape of his erection is abrupt beneath the thin material of his pants. He pulls his waistband down and his cock springs free in a stark upward curve that makes Sherlock's hips shift in the seat.

John touches his tongue to his lip and presses himself forward into his palm, once, breath stuttering over his lips at the obvious relief of it. He cups his hips forward again—twice more, three times, _God_ —then slides his hand down to wrap it around his length. Sherlock shoves his forearms hard against the armrests, using the leverage to angle himself up further. He wants to _see_. John's grip on himself is very sure, not at all tentative. The slide of his hand is slow, much slower than Sherlock's own hand would be moving in its place. Sherlock watches the flushed-dark head of John's cock as it slides in and out of John's fist. There's a wet gleam of moisture at the crown. Sherlock works his tongue in his mouth. The harsh, acrid taste is only now beginning to fade. 

He thinks of John, keying in the words— _when you think about me_ —and says, very low: " _Please_."

John's head drops forward. His hand begins to move faster. For a while the only sound is their harsh breathing and the wet sound of John's flesh. After a time that's not nearly long enough John shifts his weight side to side and slows his pace again, licking his lips. 

Sherlock shifts his hips again, flexes his feet to press his toes into the carpet. "I want to touch you," he says before he can stop himself. "Please, John, don't— please let me touch you. Look at me." John raises his eyes and Sherlock leans forward as far as he can without moving his hands from their position. There are too many inches of air between them for their mouths to meet, but Sherlock imagines he can feel the heat of John's tongue curling against his own all the same. It is unacceptable, entirely unacceptable, that he will never know what John would sound like, what sounds he would breathe into Sherlock's mouth with their lips pressed together and Sherlock's hand on his cock.

"Look at me," he says, _growls_ , and John's breath catches in his throat. It seems to take a very long time for him to drag his gaze up to meet Sherlocks.

John's chest and shoulders are shaking. Sherlock wants to set his hands against the soft-tanned expanse of John's skin, wants to take those shivery tremors into his own body, as much of them as it can stand.

Instead, he grips the armrests hard against the need filling his chest, so hard and heavy there's no room for him to get any air.

The hand on John's cock slows until it's nearly stopped altogether. Sherlock just gapes at him, open-mouthed, because _why_ , that isn't what he _wants_ , he— but John just looks back at him, biting his lip, looking lost. He sweeps his other hand up in a wide, uncoordinated gesture. Sherlock blinks, trying to— oh. _Oh_. The TID.

" _John,_ " Sherlock protests when he sees the words on the screen. John just stares back at him. He's still gripping his own cock, feather-light; the slow pace at which he's moving his hand and the visible effort with which he's controlling his breathing make something in Sherlock's chest clench tight. 

Sherlock closes his eyes "Stop," he says, finally, and John lets his hand fall away from his cock with a shuddering exhale.

Sherlock drops his weight against the back of the chair. His own arousal is an insistent tug at the base of his spine, but he waits until John jerks his chin down in a small nod before he advances to the next screen.  


  
Come close enough that I can put my legs on your shoulders. Then touch me however you can without moving from that spot, but don't let me climax yet.  


  


Which is an odd order, he thinks, but John is already shuffling forward on his knees, bending to grip Sherlock's ankles and haul them upward. The change in elevation is dizzying, and Sherlock finds himself blinking at his own bare feet against the checked material of John's shirt. The incongruity of it is absurd. Then John dips forward and tugs at Sherlock's thighs until his legs come to rest against John's clavicles, and that's— worse, maybe. Or better.

No: it's _closer_.

John strokes his hands up the backs of Sherlock's legs, scratching lightly with the backs of his nails. Sherlock watches the muscles of his thighs jerk and shiver in response. The sensation itself is too distant, curling almost lazily into something tight and wiry, _hungry_ , just below his ribcage. 

"John," he says, gripping the armrests hard to lever himself into a more upright position. When John's eyes flash up to meet his, the impulse to beg is sudden and oddly disconcerting. Sherlock swallows it down. "Your mouth," he manages to say, because that— please.

John's lips curl up, the hungry anticipation plain on his face. He dips his head forward and— _oh_. Sherlock very nearly falls back against the back of the chair as John's tongue swipes over the exposed head of his cock, above the line of his skin. The sensation sparks through him, a fizzing whipcord of need that forces a breathless whine from his throat.

It's glorious, and it isn't what he wants.

"No," he grits out, pulling himself upright again. John pulls his mouth away, his eyes darkening with concern, and Sherlock manages, "you're too far away," curling his spine as far forward as he can. John holds tight to Sherlock's thighs and cranes his neck up until finally, there, _there_ , and Sherlock's world narrows down to the rough slide of their tongues against each other. Sherlock can taste himself, faintly, in John's mouth. He groans his need against John's lips, unashamed, unable to do anything to stop it even if he were.

The forward bend is too much to sustain for long, and far too soon Sherlock is forced to fall back into the chair, gasping for breath. The question in John's eyes is plain enough. Sherlock waves his hand—it's all he can do not to just grip the back of John's head and push up, so just God, yes, _please_ —and John wraps his lips back around the head of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock doesn't want to look away—he wants to _watch_ , wants to see John's mouth on him—but it's entirely too difficult to keep his eyes open as the sensation coils around his spine, tighter and tighter, until— 

— he —

— it stops.

Sherlock forces his eyes open, looks down past the hopelessly disorganised sprawl of his own body to see John staring back at him, dark-eyed and open-mouthed, panting. His lips are dark and swollen, his fingers gripping Sherlock's thighs. 

Sherlock has a hard time holding the TID steady enough to read, even when he manages to focus his eyes.

"Use your tongue," he reads. "Taste—" His voice shatters into something low and formless. He swallows hard, tries again. "Taste me."

John's eyes, on Sherlock's, are sharp and intent, unwavering for the space of several heartbeats. He shifts his shoulders, redistributing the weight of Sherlock's legs. Sherlock is too breathless to do anything but drop his head back and try to swallow his moan.

John shifts his hands, gripping Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock forces air into lungs too tight with anticipation to make room for it. He has a fleeting glimpse of John's grin, quick and sharp, then John dips his head forward, and— 

Sherlock's brain stumbles over itself in an effort to parse the way John's head is moving, to understand what he's hearing, _Christ_ , wet sounds and small, eager breaths, wisps of sensation against the dark, secret places of his skin.

Sherlock is sure he's misunderstanding; surely John isn't— he can't be— but John just smiles and leans in again. This is wrong, this is _wrong_ , and part of him wants to pull away but the rest of him just wants to press down, and down, and _more_.

"God," Sherlock hears himself gasping, "John, what—"

— but his words shatter into shapeless sound as a soft, wet heat presses against his entrance. Again and again, slow; just hard enough to slip past the barrier of skin, the tight ring of muscle, and inside.

The initial realisation is stronger, at first, than the sensation itself; there's pressure, yes, foreign and unremitting, and the wet, heated flex of John's tongue, but it's a feeling without any initial urgency. It's an entirely different to the sharp sparking feeling of John's mouth on his cock; where that was a sharp flare, this is _growing_ , a low hum of sensation that's too low to hear but resonates all the way through to his bones, fills his chest with wanting.

Then it stops, and Sherlock is left empty and wanting, gasping. John leans back—the hair atop his head just tickling the skin at the join of Sherlock's arse and thigh—then it all begins again: the insistent pressure—deeper, this time; not nearly deep enough—and the odd, full sensation of John's tongue as it presses against Sherlock's body, working its way inside. Sherlock rolls his hips—he can't help it; over and over, small, pointless movements as his body clenches, thoroughly confused; needing _more_ —because the sensation is growing (resonance, amplitude; energy transport; _John_ ), doubling back on itself until he can't— he— 

He can hear himself making small, incoherent sounds, half-gasped syllables that his mouth keeps trying to shape into John's name. 

There's an odd, suspended stretch of time while he doesn't think at all, does nothing but try to ride the crest of the feeling. Then the understanding settles into the heavy space behind his eyes: John isn't going to stop, and he isn't going to give Sherlock anything else but the flexing tease of his tongue, too pliant and too shallow. John is going to keep doing precisely this until Sherlock tells him otherwise.

Sherlock's hand gropes for the TID. He raises his head with an effort; stares down at the device. His hand is shaking. He can't— the screen is blank. He jabs at it until it lights up, and it takes him longer than it should to organise his fingers into the motion it will take to advance to the next screen.

The sound he makes, when he reads it, would have been embarrassing if he had an ounce of attention left to spare for it; if there were any oxygen left in the room. It isn't what he wanted, not at all, but God, the thought of it sends a hot current all the way down his spine.

"Stop," Sherlock reads out. He has to pause to pull air into his chest before he goes on. "Touch yourself. Get yourself off for me."

John drops his forehead against the inside of Sherlock's thigh. His breath is a shuddering uncertainty where it slides across Sherlock's skin. The angle is infuriating, impossible. The shifting of John's muscles echoes up Sherlock's leg; it's not enough, not nearly. He struggles upright, first with his fingers latched around the fronts of the armrests, then with his elbows, until he can see the powerful bunch and flex of muscle in John's shoulder as he works his hand on himself.

At this angle he can see John's face, at least. The sight of him is— _God_. His lips are wet, dark—red; they must be so red, and something in Sherlock's chest aches with the knowledge of it—and parted just enough that Sherlock can see the edges of his teeth. His chin is gleaming with moisture, and Sherlock wants to kiss him; wants to taste the secret places of his own body in John's mouth.

John keeps rubbing his cheek against the inside of Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock aches to feel the scratch of his stubble, but it's just out of reach on the other side of his skin.

It makes no sense to want to touch. It won't matter, he _won't feel it_ , but still the desire for it surges hot and strong in his chest, tugging at his fingertips. John rolls his forehead against Sherlock's thigh, his breath shuddering out in what would be a groan, sparking shivery sensation when it hits the areas of Sherlock's skin that are still wet from John's mouth. 

"God, _John_ ," Sherlock says, but John's eyes are still closed. He's _too far away_.

For the space of two heartbeats, the blank-nothing sensation where Sherlock knows they're pressed together tips into dizzying blackness. He can't. He _can't_.

Sherlock can't stop himself; he reaches out with one hand to cup the side of John's jaw.

John's eyes fly open, bright flashes of blue. He leans his cheek into Sherlock's palm, the hand on his cock moving faster, still infuriatingly out of sight. But it's better, much better, now that he can see John's eyes, the way the pupils contract and expand.

The end comes all in a rush; a few brief moments of upward pressure while Sherlock registers the tight upward coil of John's muscles drawing tight. John inhales, and inhales, and doesn't release his breath, his whole body locked tight in anticipation. 

"Please," Sherlock says, without meaning to.

John's breath shatters into something harsh and jagged, bursting from his chest. Sherlock is sure he can feel the pulse of John's release, beating all the way into his own body.

John's eyes never leave Sherlock's face.

Sherlock slides his hand up and back, leaning in to cup the back of John's head, watching the last echoes of sensation work their way through John's body. With his fingers in John's hair and hot arousal still coiling around the base of his own spine, he can't hold himself still. He keeps— he keeps moving his hands, sliding his fingers against John's scalp in small, frenetic petting motions. 

John's expression softens as his breathing gradually slows back to normal. John reaches up to grip Sherlock's arm, leaning back to plant a kiss against Sherlock's palm. Sherlock sees rather than feels the way John squeezes his wrist before releasing it. Sherlock's arm falls slack against the seat of the chair with a thud. He feels oddly heavy, anchored to his core, with his limbs far away and outside his control.

John's mouth curls into a small, slow smile. He licks at his lips and leans forward, setting his mouth against the base of Sherlock's cock. Which shouldn't feel like anything—he knows it shouldn't—but Sherlock watches his cock jerk in response and feels it all the way up his spine, a heavy pulse of need that makes him ache in a way he'd never known he could.

John's smile opens into a wide grin and that aches, too, high in Sherlock's chest and throat.

"God, John," he gasps out, "I want—" but he can't finish the sentence because he doesn't _know_.

John's laugh is soundless but no longer breathless. It's impossible that John could be sitting there, so near, already regaining his composure while Sherlock is _dying_ , the inside of his skin aflame with a need he doesn't know how to articulate. But John understands anyway; he moves, kneeling up, and presses his fingers into Sherlock's body, and the diffuse need narrows down to a single point of pressure. 

Two fingers, Sherlock thinks. They're slick enough to slide in easily, which means he missed something, how—

— but then John is pressing in and in and in, slowly, _too slowly_ , too much, and Sherlock is too busy trying to stifle the desperate sounds he can feel piling up in his throat. 

The stretch scarcely registers, leaving him to focus on the hard fullness of the intrusion. Sherlock arches his spine, fighting to hold still while his body struggles to process the strange, unfamiliar sensation of John's fingers pressing inexorably further inside him. Sherlock doesn't mean to lift his hand to his head—the old impulse to tug at his hair, to tell himself _stay here_ —but when he does so he finds that it's shaking. He finds that it's shaking quite a bit, in fact, and he has to put his arm back onto the armrest and hold on for fear of his own unsteadiness.

John's fingertips brush against a sensitive spot inside him that makes everything flare bright with colour, yellows and blues and greens sparking in his vision. Those breathless sounds must have been coming from Sherlock's own throat, but he can do nothing to stop them. Too close for too long, his body arches helplessly in search of release that remains just out of reach.

"I can't," Sherlock gasps out, forcing his tongue to shape the words despite the heavy tightness in his throat, "John, I—"

The pressure eases and Sherlock inhales, inhales again, his ribcage bowing upward, then— _oh_ , another spark as John curls his fingers, the tips of them sliding against the inside of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's body winds tighter and tighter, still straining. Another brief moment of reprieve—a burst of air from Sherlock's chest, another shuddery gasp—then pressure and _oh_ , a final crest spiralling up and up, pulsing blindly outward from somewhere deep inside the core of him until he has nothing left to give.

When Sherlock blinks his eyes open again, sometime later, John is standing a few feet away working the buttons open on his shirt.

"Your timing is… impeccable." Sherlock surprises himself with the harsh rasp in his voice. 

John grins ruefully and holds up a shirttail. It's streaked with wetness halfway up the front. Sherlock blinks down at his own stomach; it's clean. How long was he out?

Sherlock clears his throat. "Well," he says, voice curling with amusement, "that's one way to get you undressed."

John strips his shirt down over his shoulders, balls it up, and throws it at Sherlock's chest. His eyes are laughing; Sherlock can't help the laugh that wells up in his throat. He tosses the shirt back—it misses entirely—and presses himself to standing. He's obliged to grasp blindly at the back of the chair for support as a wave of dizziness flares bright before his eyes.

John's arm around his waist is a steadying pressure. Sherlock allows himself to lean into the support of John's body and in return John's body both yields and holds, both at once, as it adjusts to Sherlock's weight. John fits their shoulders and hips together until he can stretch up and press his mouth to Sherlock's. It's a long, slow kiss, wet and warm and entirely without urgency. Sherlock flexes down into it and lets his tongue search out his own taste in John's mouth; feels the heat of it in his chest all the same. 

Sherlock tries—fails; fails utterly—to swallow his protest when John finally pulls away. He sets a palm flat against the front of Sherlock's chest— _stay_ —and stoops down to retrieve his TID from where it must, at some point in the proceedings, have fallen on the floor. He wipes his hand on his trousers and gives Sherlock a wry, appraising look, but his thumbs on the keys are nearly as steady as usual.

When John turns the TID around, Sherlock reads the message aloud, his mouth twisting into a smile around the words.

"You're a wreck. Get undressed and take me to bed."


	2. Spectroscopy

It's hours before dawn when Sherlock opens his eyes. John is unmoving against his back, breath sleep-even and heavy. He has one hand spread protectively over Sherlock's hip above the quilt; Sherlock's own body is no more than half-awake, his limbs heavy and thick with the remnants of the previous evening's exertions, but his mind is already abuzz with thought.

Sherlock eases himself slowly onto his back, careful not to dislodge John's hand. John wakes less frequently with Sherlock's warm body beside him, but he's still unacceptably easy to disturb in sleep. It's a lesson Sherlock learned all too well on the first night they spent together in Sherlock's bed. 

The evening of their return from Devon had passed uneventfully, until Sherlock was started from his thought by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. John had watched him read the text— _You look exhausted. Come to bed._ —and then simply stood and made his way to Sherlock's bed without a moment's hesitation. And Sherlock, much to his surprise, had followed. They'd fallen asleep with Sherlock's chest pressed close against John's back, his arm snug around the compact musculature of John's ribcage, breathing in the clean-salt scent of the skin at the nape of his neck.

He'd woken to find himself tumbling rather abruptly to the floor.

Over the course of the night, the combined heat of their bodies and unresponsive weight of Sherlock's limbs had gradually merged with the hot climes of John's dreams until his body registered Sherlock's presence as a physical threat. Half-awake and disorientated, drenched in sweat and unable either to move away or to wake Sherlock by sound or touch, John had reacted by simply lashing out.

By the time Sherlock disentangled himself from the sheet and sat up, John had woken sufficiently to realise what had happened. When their eyes met John's face had been twisted with mingled guilt and fear, which was unbearable, and all Sherlock's protests—that it was mere instinct; that it was understandable—seemed to have no effect. John's hands had been shaking when he'd insisted on checking Sherlock for injuries, over Sherlock's protests (and really, it was absurd; Sherlock was _fine_ , obviously so, it wasn't as though he'd never fallen out of bed before). They'd still been shaking when John indicated his intent to spend the rest of the night in his own bed, and that was simply intolerable.

"I once again failed to account for all the variables," Sherlock had said, and John's mouth had twisted into a wry smile. "Rest assured that error will be corrected in future. Now that we have the data we can adapt accordingly."

In the end, John had stayed.

The necessary adjustments were acceptable. Since then they've slept with John pressed close against Sherlock's back. Sherlock would prefer opening his eyes to the soft hair at the nape of John's neck, but under the circumstances, this is… better.

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow until he can see John's face. In the dark of the room his eyes are lost in shadow, deep pools of it that spill down the sides of his nose. His lips are soft, lacking their usual tension, and that's— that's better, too.

John's breath catches in the back of his throat. It's ridiculous, Sherlock tells himself, that it makes him think of the rough sounds of John's breathing while he worked his hand along his own length, the way his eyes had gone dark when Sherlock— _God_ —when Sherlock shaped his mouth around John's words, but he can no more stop his mind from making the connection than he can halt the flow of blood in his veins.

John's words, Sherlock's voice. And what would those same words have sounded like, had John had a voice of his own to speak them? The question is a familiar one, the paths to its answer—no, not answer; infuriating _lack of answer_ —well-trodden, but Sherlock allows himself the indulgence of retracing them nonetheless.

It's not the first time Sherlock has lain in bed, staring up at the ceiling and attempting to conjure John's voice out of empty air. And after the failure at Baskerville, he's sure it won't be the last.

But— but Sherlock isn't the only one, is he? He knows that now. He imagines John in his own bed, planning which words he wanted to hear in Sherlock's voice, what he wanted Sherlock to order him to do, how he wanted to be told to touch Sherlock's body. Sherlock can see it: one of John's hands holding his TID, his thumb moving unsteadily over the keyboard while his other hand slipped beneath his pyjamas to take himself in hand, thinking of his words in Sherlock's mouth, his breath beginning to shake as he pressed his hips up, and— 

There's a restless, desperate feeling beginning to well up in Sherlock's chest. He slides his own hand beneath the quilt as quickly as he dares without waking John, skimming it down the length of his body until he can take himself in hand. His hips shift, involuntarily, and Sherlock forces himself to stillness with one hand wrapped around where he knows he must be hard and heavy, waiting for John to wake behind him, but— nothing. Nothing from John, and nothing from Sherlock's own hand on his cock, skin to skin with all its many nerve endings pressed together, exquisite sensitivity flaring into infuriating nothingness.

Sherlock breathes out hard through his nose and tries to will himself to stillness. Sleep, he should sleep, but instead he finds himself recalling the sensation of John pressing into him, the wet heat of his tongue, the sure pressure of his fingers, the unfamiliar fullness building and building until he simply overflowed.

And Sherlock could do that, he thinks; he could slide his fingers over his hip and down. He imagines twisting his spine until he could press his fingers up and in, but no. No way to manage it without waking John. For the first time since he hid it at the back of his shelf he finds himself thinking of the box issued to him at his last tattoo upkeep appointment, the standard kit of stimulation aids that the public health department considered essential assistive devices for aceptives. Such provisions have never been his area—the box is still sealed by sellotape bearing the NHS logo—but with the memory of John's touch inside him he just— he _wants_.

He wants, yes; but not his own touch, and certainly not— not those.

Sherlock slides his hand back up until he can see it curled against the mattress in front of him.

He presses his eyes closed and concentrates on his breathing, trying to force it back to a normal rate, waiting for the heavy, desperate pulsing in his veins to subside. Ridiculous. He's being _ridiculous_ ; what other word is there for wanting something he can't have?

Sherlock draws in a deep breath and forces himself to release it slowly. Another. The air takes on a tangible shape as he takes it into his mouth, down his throat. 

Such a simple matter: moving air and hollow muscle; vibration and acoustic resonance. 

Sherlock hears dozens of voices a day, every possible permutation of air pressed over vocal cords and shaped by lips and tongue, but never the one that matters.

He exhales, slowly. If he concentrates, he can still feel the shape of John's words in his mouth. 

(Almost. He can _almost_ — )

His methods are a comfortable sort of alchemy—seeking connections between points of data, slipping thoughts into the cracks between them until the conclusion emerges from the shape of the puzzle itself—but in this—in John—those same methods have failed him again and again.

Consider the facts. John Hamish Watson, born in Hampshire. Ageusic father, aceptive mother. Aceptive sister, three years older than John: expected. Father a career soldier, past his prime but still active. Mostly his mother at home, then. Aceptive parent, aceptive child, like Sherlock's own household; the contact between them all words and little touch.

No other aphones in John's immediate family, his variant carried on a recessive gene; how long before they would have recognised their son for what he was?

Not long. Sherlock tells himself this with a certainty he tries fervently to believe: his parents must have known immediately. John wouldn't have cried, even as an infant. Beside him, John's head shifts against the pillow, his breath roughening over his lips, as though to echo Sherlock's train of thought: tears, yes; the harsh wail of an unhappy child, no. 

Aceptive mother, aceptive sister. Clumsy fingers, ill-suited to signs. Dangerous to theorise without data, but— 

No, the data is there: John's hands on Sherlock's skin have never been clumsy. John's hands are the link between his mind and the world; he uses them with a grace and certainty surely instilled at a young age. Even in that household, he must have understood the value of touch. Inference only; impossible to confirm.

But these suppositions concern language. Language is a resource John has in abundance. What he lacks is a voice. John's body is eloquent in that respect, as in all others. Sherlock could estimate tenor and pitch from the geometric configuration of John's body—the diameter of his chest, the depth of his ribcage, the placement of his adam's apple within the column of his throat—but any conclusions drawn from such inferences are highly suspect.

Sherlock tries to imagine their positions reversed, John in the chair and Sherlock on his knees, John's mouth opening to speak the words— _Taste me_ , Christ—but though he can see the tableau with perfect clarity down to the soft, wet gleam of John's lips as they part, even in his mind he cannot hear the sound that would emerge.

Data. What does he know?

"Hamish" indicates a connection to some Scots Gaelic ancestry; would that have been present in his parents' accent? Unlikely, with his family history (moderately wealthy, moderately educated; unremarkable in every outward aspect, likely the result of a previous generation's deliberate effort at assimilation). Regional variation is negligible in Hampshire, sufficiently so that any traces in John's speech would have been erased by his time in London at uni. (Pre-university education: an unknown factor. John's aphonic secondary school, of course, instills no tell-tale verbal markers in its students.)

Or perhaps Hampshire would leave some lingering traces after all, subtle enough to be discernible only to the trained ear: some R-colouration in the vowels, perhaps; a slight stricture of the epiglottis; a lasting inability to manage the lip-rounding associated with the RP standard for a long "O" sound. It wouldn't be obvious, of course; most of the people John interacted with in a day would never notice. 

Sherlock would hear it.

Sherlock brings a hand up to thread his fingers in his hair. Too many variables; there are _too many variables_. Secondary school matters; even between Sherlock and Mycroft it was enough to make a difference, it— 

Focus. Data. Discount secondary school. 

What of John's subsequent education? It's possible John might have chosen a different career path, but... no. Sherlock cannot accept a version of John who makes choices that don't bring him here; that don't end with John's hand spread over Sherlock's hip in the dark. 

So: medicine, military. The circumference of John's adult life essentially unchanging: Bart's, Afghanistan, then hospital to hospital until a return to Bart's brought him home to Baker Street.

The same training would yield the same self-possession John displays now. Recontextualised, the carefully-honed situational awareness that grants him the ability to assert authority in one breath and appear unthreatening in the next would become an ability to modulate his tone as well. No battlefield demeanour in the operating theatre, not for John.

Under circumstances requiring the maximum information to be conveyed in the shortest possible time, John's efficiency of movement would surely translate to efficiency of speech. Would his tone take on a habitual hard-edged foundation? It's not uncommon among men accustomed to command.

There's simply no data on how John would sound at home.

Sherlock's mind conjures an image of John sitting at the kitchen table, eyes sparkling as he laughs aloud—Christ, how Sherlock longs to hear that, the unguarded sound of John's laughter—a forkful of food forgotten in one hand.

A John who needn't choose between word and action. A John who would be aware of what it means to make that choice. 

It always comes round the same way: same data, the same variables. Sherlock runs the calculations again, and again. Endless iterations with no possible conclusion. 

He's still doing it when he slips back down into sleep.

* * *

## Snakes Conditioned to Respond to Aural Stimuli, Researchers Claim

A team of animal researchers at the Stoke Moran Laboratory in London has made a breakthrough discovery in the field of sensory transconditioning. The team, led by Dr G Roylott, claims to have achieved success in their efforts to condition swamp adders—who, like all snakes, lack external ears—to respond to specific audio frequencies. The project, mired in controversy since its inception in 2008, is being funded jointly by the Home Office and a grant from a private backer.

"Our researchers have shown some success in stimulating the proprioceptive nerve centres in the brains of young adders, enabling them to respond to sound wave vibrations in their environment," Roylott said in an official statement Tuesday morning. "We're extremely optimistic about the potential for further development. Our hope is that these findings may have significant potential for application in the anaural human population."

( click for full article )

**Related articles:** [Vibrating Skulls Help Snakes Hear](http://news.sciencemag.org/sciencenow/2011/12/vibrating-skulls-help-snakes-hear.html)

 

* * *

  


  
To: John Watson 18:27  
Dinner?  


  


  
From: John Watson 18:29  
Is this you asking?  


Patently too absurd to dignify with a response. Sherlock rolls his eyes and sets his mobile face-down on his chest, pressing his fingertips together. Really, for someone so reliant on the written word, such imprecision is inexcusable.

When his mobile chimes, Sherlock nearly drops it in his haste.  


  
From: John Watson 18:36  
Let me rephrase: Asking me to cook, fetch, or accompany?  


  


Insufficient data. Sherlock suppresses a sound of irritation and thumbs out his own response as quickly as he can.

  


  
To: John Watson 18:36  
Accompany.  


  
From: John Watson 18:37  
Down in a minute.  


  


Immediate. If irritation, then, a passing variety; affectionate.

Angelo's, when they get there, is crowded and noisy. Sherlock glares around at the press of bodies as they thread their way up to the entrance. It takes him a moment to realise what is so striking: there are orange markers visible on nearly every wrist.

Oh, of bloody _course._ A featured review—four stars, ebullient testimony to Angelo's _innovative_ use of scented vapour when really, any halfway-competent chemist could have done the same—in a glossy gastronasal mag.

Sherlock curses himself for having forgotten. Well, at least they haven't run into Mycroft.

At least they haven't run into Mycroft _yet_. He'll have to keep an eye out.

They have to wait a few minutes before a table opens up. John leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets, elbows hugged close against the chill. Sherlock, inexplicably, wishes for a cigarette. He finds he has very little to say, which is just as well, because he's fairly certain he'd have to shout in order to be heard in any case.

Angelo himself appears to lead them to a table. He's affable as always, obviously glad to see them, and Sherlock finds that he was right about the shouting. He has to try three times to make his congratulations understood, pretending he doesn't see the smile twitching around the corners of John's mouth as he is compelled to repeat himself yet again.

"He's the one that introduced me to aromatising, you know," Angelo says to John, pulling out his chair. John raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, fixing his gaze on Sherlock's face. _Oh, yes?_

Sherlock has to swallow hard; the smile cresting behind John's tight-pressed lips is threatening to spill over onto his own face. "I demonstrated that you lacked the skill to produce the vapour used in—"

Angelo laughs, cutting him off. "I wouldn't have known what to study up on if he hadn't told me what I didn't know. I did a chemistry course in secondary school, of course, but… anosmic. Not really in the standard curriculum." He shrugs, as though the deliberate circumscription of his education were something to be approached with good-natured acceptance. "I've got something special on hand for you, Sherlock; been wondering when you'd come by so I could try it."

Sherlock wouldn't have thought John's eyebrows could climb any higher. Full of surprises, John. The urge to tug at his hair is intense, but— no, not here. Not yet, at least; not with so many eyes at the tables around them.  


  
From: John Watson 19:14  
Something special?  


  


"Yes." Sherlock shifts his legs beneath the table, suddenly unsure what he's doing here at all. He isn't hungry. "He knows about my— about the peculiarities of my, er. Taste." John's face creases in understanding, and Sherlock swallows hard. How many times have they eaten here, the two of them? Has John truly not noticed? "He takes it as a bit of a personal challenge, I'm afraid."

  


  
From: John Watson 19:15  
Nice of him.  


  


"Yes," Sherlock says again, at a loss. "Yes, it's— nice." His own voice sounds flat. Ridiculous. John flashes a tight smile at him, then bends to leaf through his menu. Sherlock balances his elbow on the table and leans in, just a bit. With his head bent forward, John's eyes are lost in pools of shadow.

The appearance of a waiter to take John's order catches Sherlock by surprise, which is infuriating. Even more infuriating is the smug expression on his face when John points to his menu, the entirely-unsubtle flick of his eyes to take in John's left wrist.

"You don't get aphones in here?" Sherlock snaps, before he can stop himself. The waiter blinks at him. Sherlock stares back. He can't—absolutely can not—meet John's eye.

"Of course we do, sir," the waiter says. The pause before he goes on is short enough that he likely thinks it passed unnoticed. Idiot. It's only anticipation of the expression on John's face that keeps Sherlock in his chair. "What can I get for you?"

Sherlock forces himself to take a deep breath. "Angelo is sending something out for me. Take his order." He drops the waiter's gaze, finally, and forces himself to meet John's eyes. John looks— no, not embarrassed. Not embarrassed at all. His expression is entirely unreadable, and entirely steady. The furious heat surging up Sherlock's throat eases, just enough.

"I— very good, sir," the waiter says, then departs.

John's mouth presses into a thin line.

"Hamish," Sherlock says, because he needs to know. Surprise twists the hard set of John's mouth. "Scots Gaelic? In your family?"

There's a pause while John works it out.  


  
From: John Watson 19:21  
I think so. Not for generations, though.  


  


"But your parents' identification was still strong enough—"

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut when John shakes his head. It's a struggle not to drum his fingers against the tabletop while John keys in his message.  


From: John Watson 19:23  
Harry was named after our grandmothers, bless her. Harriet Ethel. They wanted to do the same for me. John on my mother's side, James on my father's, but my dad thought "John Hamish" had a better ring to it than "John James."  


  


"It doesn't matter what your name _sounds like_ ," Sherlock bites out. "That's ridiculous. What possible difference could it make to someone who will never say his own name aloud?"

Too far; that was too far. Sherlock knows it the moment he hears the words leave his mouth. But to be so wrong, repeatedly; to so vastly misinterpret a piece of data when the scope of it is so limited to begin with... he can't help it.

The heavy thud of his heartbeat expands into the space—too long; unbearable—before John begins to type out his reply.  


From: John Watson 19:25  
Others do. Anyway, I like Hamish. And maybe if yours had had the same consideration, you wouldn't have been saddled with "Sherlock."  


  


And that's— all right. Sherlock breathes out a quick laugh, mingled relief and genuine amusement.

"Could be worse. I'll count myself fortunate they'd already used Mycroft."

Sherlock watches John's lips twist with his silent laugh and wonders—again, as always; tedious, unavoidable—what shape John's mouth would take as he spoke Sherlock's name.

* * *

John's breath is audibly harsh and urgent. To Sherlock, with his head between John's thighs, it seems to be coming from somewhere very far away. 

"No," Sherlock had said when John's fingers began to work open Sherlock's trousers, "I— you. I want to watch you tonight. Please." And John had nodded, let himself be pressed back against the bed, tipped his chin up to smile against Sherlock's lips. And that was— kissing, yes, but Sherlock wanted _more_ , so he forced himself to draw his mouth away and move down John's body, letting his fingers explore everything that had been forbidden to him the night before.

Now John's cock is lying heavy against Sherlock's tongue. He swallows around the thin, bitter taste of it—it's an entirely unfamiliar but oddly compelling taste; Sherlock finds himself stifling a moan at the thought of it filling his mouth—and John's inhale turns sharp as he angles up, just a little, his leg sliding restlessly against the sheets. 

Sherlock brushes his fingers along the inside of John's thigh and the muscles of John's abdomen flex beneath the barrier of John's skin, lifting his hips to press further into Sherlock's mouth. And just— just _yes_ , Sherlock wants everything John's body has to give him, wants to see John open up before him. He keeps moving his mouth on John's cock (sloppy; he knows it's sloppy, but _God_ , he just wants— wants more of John in his mouth, all of his movements aimed at more of John's body where Sherlock can feel it) and raises his eyes to John's face.

John's mouth is open, his tongue visible behind his teeth. Sherlock longs to hear the sounds that tongue could make, but the dark, wet gleam of it inside John's open mouth makes Sherlock feel like the witness to a secret. He can't help smiling, his lips curling upward with John's cock still in his mouth, but when he looks up John's eyes are— his eyes are closed. It's unacceptable. 

Sherlock wants to _see him_ , he wants to know. It shouldn't matter, he knows it shouldn't matter, but this is— this is worse than the heavy nothing of his own hand the night before. It's unbearable to be able to taste the heavy bitterness of John's cock, feel the hot pulse of him, while everything else is locked away, trapped behind the barriers of Sherlock's skin and John's throat.

Sherlock can't breathe. He pulls off, cheeks blazing, and says, "Don't close your eyes, John. Please don't, I— I need to see you." His voice doesn't sound like his own.

John's eyes are dark blue in the low light. They look at each other across the heaving expanse of John's chest, and that's better. That's better. Sherlock can feel his own breath coming easier.

"Please," he says again. John nods, once, and Sherlock doesn't look away as he leans forward to slide his tongue along John's cock ( _teeth, teeth, be careful_ ). 

There's a blush blooming dark beneath John's skin that reaches halfway to his navel. He's still meeting Sherlock's eye, and Sherlock stares back like a man starving. There, that shadow; that flicker, _please_. Sherlock moans and hollows his cheeks—more; he wants _more_ —and John's breath shatters as he begins to shake.

God, _yes, more_ —

— until John's eyes squeeze shut. 

Sherlock groans his protest and is about to pull away but John arcs off the bed, his ribs flexing upward. Then John floods his mouth, hot and sharp, and Sherlock is swallowing and trying not to cough, his vision flaring bright with sudden, irrational fury. He didn't get to _see_.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes—the angle of the light around the blinds says late morning—John is gone. The bedroom door is ajar; when Sherlock closes his eyes and concentrates he can hear the steady _tap, tap, tap_ of John's fingers on the keyboard.

Sherlock untangles himself from the duvet, wraps his dressing gown around his shoulders, and stifles a yawn as he makes his way out of the bedroom.

John is sitting in his armchair with his laptop balanced on his knees. John flashes Sherlock a quick grin when Sherlock emerges into the kitchen. Sherlock smiles back, then runs his tongue around the backs of his teeth; Christ, his mouth tastes foul. John is dressed in pyjama bottoms and an oversized jumper. It shouldn't be possible for his hair to look messy, not at its current length, but it does. Sherlock has a sudden mental image of John sliding out of bed in the early morning light, quiet and careful and slow so as not to disturb Sherlock's sleep, and making his way out here to— what? Had he pulled out his laptop right away, or had he simply sat there and _looked_?

Sherlock tugs at his hair—here; he's still _here_ —and forces himself to take a deep breath. John is watching him, now, his eyes very blue and moving over Sherlock's body. Sherlock thinks of those same eyes looking down at him the night before, so blue, until— 

Sherlock turns his back on John long enough to fill the kettle. The weight of the tap water rapidly turns the kettle into a dead weight in his hand, leaving him with no distractions from the unfamiliar warmth curling through his chest below the tightness in his throat. It's an oddly hollow sort of pressure, distracting enough that when he reaches up to retrieve a mug from the cupboard, he very nearly knocks it to the floor instead.

Sherlock stares down at his fingers wrapped around the handle, the pale expanse of his own forearm with the blue ridges of veins just visible beneath the skin, and thinks, from nowhere, of a description he'd read in a novel as a teenager: _like pressing on a bruise_. "A good sort of pain," Mycroft had said when he asked. "It hurts, and one knows one mustn't keep prodding at it, but it's satisfying," which hadn't helped at all. Sherlock had simply scowled—doubtless said something meant to be scathing; doubtless Mycroft had found it merely amusing, the prat—and turned his back, no closer to understanding.

Data; so much data he could never access, locked away on the other side of his skin, and now this. And now _John_.

But there's no _mustn't_ , not now, and by the time the kettle has boiled Sherlock thinks he might be capable of being in John's presence without succumbing to the magnetic urge to simply climb inside his mouth and stay.

"Good morning." Sherlock's voice is rough with sleep; he clears his throat and settles into his own chair opposite John's. John presses his lips into a thin line, but he can't suppress the upward curl at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again; looks down at his hand where it's settled against the armrest. _God_.

Sherlock swallows hard and drags his gaze back up.

"Writing up the—" He narrows his eyes at John, considering; it's only been a week, but it's the most likely option, "— the Baskerville case?"

John's lips twitch; he nods, once, and doesn't elaborate.

"And I suppose I'll have to wait to read it."

Another nod. It's idiotic, that John won't let him preview the entries before he posts them. Even in its most raw state, the written word is no match for the spoken when it comes to spontaneity. It's easy enough to access the drafts, of course, but that John wishes to deny him is infuriating.

Sherlock raises his mug to his lips and takes a mouthful of tea. He swallows immediately without feeling it move down his throat, and it takes him longer than it should to realise that's because it must have burned.

* * *

## Counterfeiting Ring Foiled by Scotland Yard

A local shut-in who was alleged to be the intended target of a murder plot last spring was brought in for questioning on charges of involvement with a large-scale currency counterfeiting scheme.

The suspect is London resident John Douglas, 51. Douglas was embroiled in a burglary scandal in February 2010, when an anonymous tip to Scotland Yard resulted in the apprehension of Ted Baldwin, 22, of Stoke-on-Trent. Baldwin was arrested in the act of attempting to break into Douglas' heavily-fortified home. Baldwin was charged with burglary and conspiracy to commit murder, and was sentenced to three years in prison following his conviction at trial.

At this time, the extent of Douglas' alleged involvement with the counterfeiting scheme remains unclear, but local authorities believe….

( click for full article )

* * *

  
**Personals**

* * *

50+ aceptive seeks same for companionship.

Contact Gladys: 07700 900380

* * *

Anosmic man seeks anaural woman who enjoys art museums and horse racing.

Call Aaron: 07700 900712

* * *

Anoptic seeks ageusic plus-size.

020 7946 0153. Ask for Mark.

  


**Test subjects wanted**

Seeking healthy anoptic men and women ages 18-35 for colour therapy. Will compensate.

Interested parties should contact the Centre for Visual Spectrum Research at 020 7946 0891.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8292429351/)

* * *

## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

16 March

### The Hound of Baskerville

 

If I told you all that Sherlock Holmes took a case that involved traipsing around a cold, dark moor in early March in search of a lost dog, you wouldn't believe me, would you?

I was as surprised as you are.

The dog belonged to one Henry Knight, whom—there you go, Sherlock; I've had more schooling than you have, remember—some of you might recall from a BBC3 programme a few weeks ago. As it turns out, he's also the cousin of one of my old mates from the army.

(He reads this blog, as well. Give us a wave, then, Henry!)

If you saw the programme, you might recall him as the anaural who claimed to be able to perceive sound. Turns out, there's a research facility nearby using soundwaves as a sort of security system; high-pitched frequencies meant to deter wildlife from nosing around the generators, that sort of thing.

Henry's service dog appears to have got the precisely wrong end of that particular stick, however. Her name is Maggie, and she has the distinction of being an NHS-certified service dog who is, bless her furry little heart, losing her hearing. Possibly because she can't seem to get it through her thick skull that that high-pitched sound—and yes, I heard it; it was horrid enough to make my teeth ache—is something she should go _away_ from.

So Sherlock and I found ourselves on a stakeout on a tor, in March. It was shaping up to be a rather lovely evening, all told. Sherlock even packed us biscuits and coffee! But of course he couldn't content himself with just waiting for the dog to wander by, or maybe _calling her_ like any sensible person would do, and instead he goes haring off into the dark after a shadow.

And when I say dark, I mean _dark_. I don't know if you've spent a lot of time on the moor in Devon at night, but "dark" really is the word for it. "Muddy" and "cold" and "full of rocks that leap out to trip you up" would be spot on, as well. It's a wonder Sherlock didn't fall and break his neck.

What he did—okay, what we _both_ did, and please don't ask how this happened because the only explanation I can give you is that things got a bit muddled in the dark—was fall into a great bloody pond.

Lucky for me that Sherlock was paying attention in P.E.—and that he went to the sort of aceptive school that utterly lacked any imagination in that regard, and insisted on sending their students into the pool week after week—because I can't swim. He got me sorted out and we made our way back to the car, wanting nothing more than to get warm and dry and prepared to file the Case of the Missing Dog with the rest of our unsuccessful cases.*

Of course, no sooner did we get back to the car and switch on the beams than we saw Maggie.

She was up on the tor where we'd been sitting, eating our biscuits, happy as you like, precisely as concerned by our presence as she had been when we were up to our necks in pond water.

And really, isn't that the sort of situation in which a service dog is supposed to be of service? Henry, mate, if you haven't got a replacement yet, contact the NHS for a new service dog. If Maggie did wake you up in response to an alarm, it would be entirely by accident. She'll make a lovely pet, but it's time for her to go into official retirement.

Anyway. Having eaten our dinner, Maggie saw no reason to stick around, so she took off back into the Hollow. Sherlock, the rollicking great idiot that he is, was all set to run off after her. But it wasn't actually any less dark than it had been earlier, and his clothes were soaked—both of ours were—so I convinced him to leave her be until morning. 

So Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was forced to admit that he couldn't catch a runaway dog. And that that same dog, in the course of evading her apprehension by the aforementioned consulting detective, had opportunity to commit an additional crime in the form of theft of our dinner. That's right: we aided and abetted a criminal hound.

We were forced to return to Henry Knight's with our tails between our legs and admit that the blasted criminal beast was still at large. After a good night's sleep we had to deal with another matter altogether (during which time Sherlock was no doubt devising a clever scheme for her apprehension), only to discover that she'd toddled back on her own while we were out.

So all's well that ends well, I suppose, and Sherlock can count the Hound of Baskerville as another case solved.

*Sherlock would want me to clarify that that's a small number. 

**10 comments**  
—

The number of "unsolved" cases we have is, in fact, zero. We have solved cases, and cases whose files remain open and, as such, have simply not been solved _yet_.

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 16 March 2011_

—

Of course. How foolish of me. That matter with the worm in the matchbox will be sorted out any day now, I'm sure. I'll just hold my breath, then, shall I? 

_**John Watson** , 16 March 2011_

—

Got enough of that falling into the pond, I should think.

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 16 March 2011_

—

Oh, bloody hell, aceptive schools and their wretched swimming courses. At least those days in PE were better than the ones where we had to catch a ball over and over again.

I told you you should have signed up for lessons at the municipal pool.

_**H. Watson** , 16 March 2011_

—

I was quite happy wasting my Saturday mornings on rugby, thanks ever so. Though I might be getting too old for Sherlock's learn-by-immersion method of swimming instruction.

And really, I'd forgotten - it was just swimming and motor skills for you lot, wasn't it, in those days. Of course Sherlock paid attention in swimming. If he didn't he'd have been punted back to ball-catching class.

_**John Watson** , 16 March 2011_

—

*waves*

Maggie says hello, too:

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8294113858/)

_**h_knight** , 17 March 2011_

—

Seriously, Henry, I say this as a medical professional: you need to get a new service dog. Maggie is sweet, but… awful.

_**John Watson** , 17 March 2011_

—

I put the order in just after you and Mr Holmes left. Maggie will be officially retired before the week is out. I paid the fee to keep her on as a pet, though, so she'll be staying with me.

_**h_knight** , 17 March 2011_

—

What a sweetie!

Really glad to hear she’s going to be taken care of. All animals deserve a good home. Pet ownership is a lifetime commitment!

_**Molly Hooper** , 17 March 2011_

Sherlock rereads the entry, then scans the new comments. None of them are even possibly from Irene, but his annoyance at that is tempered by his overall frustration with the entry itself.

It makes sense, of course, that John would limit the scope of the entry—classified military research facilities do tend to demand circumspection—but the knowledge does nothing to mitigate Sherlock's sense of disappointment. 

The fact remains: of all the things that happened in Dartmoor, the one in which he's the least interested is the stupid dog, and yet— and yet this is what he gets. It doesn't matter how many times he rereads the entry. He isn't going to find what he needs. 

Yet the compulsion is there. Mycroft's voice in memory: _painful and satisfying._ Like pressing on a bruise. Sherlock's mind struggles to connect the words to a sensation, but the requisite data remains just out of reach.

Sherlock grits his teeth and forces himself to look up from the screen. John is sitting on the sofa with the morning paper. The collar of his shirt is visible above the neck of his jumper. It's checked; red, most likely, or brown. His jumper is almost certainly dark brown rather than burgundy or some other shade. John isn't a fastidious dresser, but he's careful enough. He coordinates. It doesn't matter. (Doesn't it? How he chooses to present himself? What might Sherlock be able to understand if he could be sure he'd elided no details?) Relaxed posture; unguarded; his face as easy to read as ever.

And yet.

John notices him watching. He meets Sherlock's gaze with an easy smile.

Sherlock returns the smile as best he can then directs his attention to the screen, keying in his response at the bottom of the list of comments. More chance of sussing out Irene if she knows he’s still reading, after all.

## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

16 March

### The Hound of Baskerville

( [read more](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16march) )

( 11 comments )

-———

Really, John? The "immersion method"? Surely such puns are beneath you.

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 17 March 2011_

Then he sets the laptop aside and makes his way over to sofa, settling himself easily into the space John moves aside to make for him.

After a moment, Sherlock says, "I've been considering Godfrey Emsworth. How best to recover him. Now, if we— _what_?" 

John shifts in his seat, his mouth skewed in unmistakable unhappiness.

Sherlock furrows his brow. "You'd… prefer I didn't. Your compatriot has gone missing and you...." It's ridiculous, illogical; completely absurd. John wants Emsworth to be found, of course he does, and Sherlock is the most efficient means of his recovery. What possible reason would John have for wishing to delay his recovery? But that's— no, that's not it, is it? Not an aversion to Godfrey being found. "You don't want me to be the one to find him." John's nod is small but unhesitating. "You— why?"

John closes his eyes, briefly, just long enough for Sherlock to recognise the signs that he doesn't like the answer he's about to give. Sherlock fights not to drum his fingers against the armrest while John keys in his answer, then turns his laptop so Sherlock can read the screen.

  
I've seen the way you are with victims. You can't just let well enough alone, and it's going to be hard enough for him, what with his voice and all. So it's probably for the best if you stay out of this one. Let the Yard do their jobs.  


_Hard enough with his voice?_ With his voice coming back, John means. How could that possibly make things more difficult?

"That's idiotic," Sherlock hears himself say before he can stop himself. John flexes his jaw but doesn't turn the laptop back. _Fine_. "And if you're referring to that French tourist who was found—"

John yanks the laptop around to face him. His fingers move quickly over the keys.

  
She was the VICTIM, Sherlock.  


"Yes, and _as_ the victim of a kidnapping she spent a not-insignificant amount of time in the presence of the kidnapper. The kidnapper being, as you may have noticed, the very person we were trying to identify. So yes, John, I pursued the investigation down the avenues it led, so— oh, _what now_?"

There are taut lines of strain drawing down from the corners of John's mouth.

  
You don't always realise what you're exposing about someone before you do it, and I'd rather not see him have to go through that right now. So just give this one a miss, Sherlock. As a favour to me.  


Sherlock draws in a deep breath and lets it out again before he speaks. "Fine. Fine. I will not involve myself in the Emsworth investigation, if that's what you'd prefer." He can't help the sneer that creeps into his voice. "I'm sure the Yard will have him located in record time."

At that, John breathes a laugh down his nose, but the strain around his mouth relaxes into a resigned complacency, and Sherlock finds his breath is coming a little easier.

And really, won't this just be an intriguing challenge? John wants Emsworth to be found, and they both know that Sherlock will be able to locate him faster than anyone at the Yard, even on their best day. So if John wants Emsworth to be found and doesn't want Sherlock to be involved in the investigation, then Sherlock is going to have to plan his next move very carefully indeed.

* * *

## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

16 March

### How the Hound was Found by the Sound on the Grounds (or, her bark was worse than our fright)

( [read more](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16march) )

( 16 comments )

-———

You're right. That one was a little weak.

Perhaps you'd rather I simply exercised a bit more creativity?

Accordingly, I would like to draw everyone's attention to the updated title of this entry, as changed on advisement of one Consulting Detective. Snappy, no?

_**John Watson** , 18 March 2011_

—

John, the degree to which this amuses you gives me paws for concern.

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 18 March 2011_

—

Someone has a screen capture of that, right? For when he inevitably hacks my computer and deletes the one I just took?

_**John Watson** , 18 March 2011_

—

Say the word and I'll post it to the Bart's listserv.

_**Mike Stamford** , 18 March 2011_

—

Two copies, dear.

_**Mrs Hudson** , 19 March 2011_

* * *

## Refit for Historic Hospital

The London NHS Trust has announced plans for a restoration project on St Bartholomew's Hospital. The project is currently in the final stages of planning. A spokesman for the London NHS Trust indicated that construction is scheduled to start within the next three months, with a tentative completion date in February 2013.

The Trust has contracted with Oldacre & McFarlane Ltd, a Norwood-based firm, to carry out the renovation.

( click for full article )


	3. Eclipsing Binary

Then comes the night in early April when Sherlock jumps and John can't follow.

When the ambulance arrives to take John away, Sherlock doesn't even try to ride along. Donovan offers him a lift to St Thomas' in her own car; when she pulls up in front of the entrance to the Accident & Emergency wing, Sherlock gets out without a word. At this time of night the lobby is mostly empty. He passes one pair of distraught-looking parents with a sleeping toddler sprawled across both their laps and half a dozen people tucked awkwardly into their seats, heads braced against curled-in arms in an attempt to catch some sleep.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at them as he makes his way to the admittance window. What purpose do they think it serves to stay here, if all they're going to do is sleep? Better to go home and get some proper rest.

The intake nurse is red-eyed and clutching a mug of coffee, obviously nearing the end of her shift. The green ink at her wrist says anaural. Of bloody course.

"Watson," Sherlock says, exaggerating the movement of his lips around each syllable. She keeps her eyes on his mouth, blinks, and otherwise does _nothing_. Sherlock takes a deep breath. "John Watson. He was brought here a few minutes ago."

The nurse's eyes show no recognition, but she sets her coffee down and turns her attention to the computer screen. "Oh yes," she says after a moment, returning her gaze to his lips. "He's been taken back already."

As though Sherlock hasn't just passed through the lobby; as though he _wouldn't have noticed_. "Yes," he grinds out, then forces himself to take another deep breath. "I'm here to see him."

"You can find him in—" she says, which is all Sherlock needs to hear before turning to push his way through the double doors.

The corridor is wide and brightly-lit. Doors on each side lead to examination rooms, three—no, four, he amends as a doctor disappears behind a closed door at the far end—of which are occupied.

John is in the second one he checks. Through the small window, Sherlock can see him laid back along an examination table with a white paper covering draped across his legs. His face is turned toward the doorway; his eyes are closed, and Sherlock watches the pained contortion of his mouth as the doctor bent low over his thigh squeezes a plastic bottle to wash saline solution over the wound.

Then John's eyes slide open. When their gazes lock, he forces his tight-pressed lips into what is probably meant to be a smile. It's so like the way John had looked up at him on the rooftop, both hands gripping his own leg in an attempt to stop the blood seeping from the fresh wound, that Sherlock takes a step back instead of forward, letting his fingers fall away from the doorknob.

It can’t be a long time that Sherlock stands frozen, pulse hammering in his ears, but it’s long enough. He tries to blink the image away—irrelevant, _pointless_ —but on the other side of that door John’s face is still clouded with pain, and allowing himself to get distracted is hardly—

Hardly what? Helpful? Oh yes, because he’d been _so bloody helpful_ on the rooftop.

Sherlock bites back a snarl, then turns on his heel and slips into an empty exam room across the hall. He leaves the light off and slides down to sit against the wall, well outside the sightline of anyone who might look in through the window in the door.

For a long while, he sits. The buzz of his thoughts is pure white noise, and every bit as meaningless.

He should wash his hands. He’s acutely aware of how filthy they are, though it's all equally invisible in the dark of the room.

He should wash his hands.

He doesn't move.

They'd been staking out a solicitor's office, waiting for the suspect—his guilt now confirmed, of course; a clerk in the same firm—to come by to retrieve a set of incriminating documents. John had suggested climbing up onto the roof of the building opposite. They'd stretched out along the ledge, low silhouettes in the streetlights, until the sudden illumination of a window in the back office told them Brennan had arrived precisely as anticipated. The light switched off just as Sherlock was finishing his call to the Yard.

"Come on, John," Sherlock had said, shoving himself upright. "He'll be long gone by the time Lestrade gets here. We'd best keep an eye on him." John's answer was a wide grin. He loved this part even more than Sherlock did.

It was a quick jump over a narrow lane to the rooftop next door. Sherlock swung down the fire escape and hit the ground running. He had Brennan in his sights before he'd rounded the first corner.

There was no shout or cry of alarm to alert Sherlock that something had happened. But then there wouldn't be, would there? Sherlock had simply glanced over his shoulder to see that, where John should have been, the lane was empty.

Sherlock had turned as quickly as he could. There was a distant shout (no, not distant; a few hundred metres at most, ahead and to the right, just as anticipated) and the wail of an approaching siren. The police, here to apprehend the fleeing suspect, but they'll have got it wrong—they always get it wrong—and John had been behind him and now—

In the empty room in A&E, Sherlock closes his eyes and drops his head back against the wall. They'll be stitching John up by now, he thinks. Hopes.

It had taken inexcusable minutes for Sherlock to understand that John never made it off the rooftop, and even then he'd nearly walked right past him. He'd been looking at the wrong height; even with dread curling icy and hard in his chest, he hadn't expected John to be anything but upright. He certainly wasn't expecting the small, unfamiliar shape of him, sitting with his back against a piece of exposed ductwork. He had his right knee drawn up toward his chest and his left leg extended along the rough surface of the shingling, toes turned inward so that he could press his palms flat to the outside of his thigh.

" _John._ " Sherlock had drawn up short, unable to tear his eyes away from the dark, wet stain already beginning to show through the thick material of John’s trousers. "Are you all right?"

It was a stupid question. The memory of it forces a sound out of Sherlock's throat, too loud in the empty hospital room. Of course John wasn't all right; he _isn't_ , even now. He's sitting in a room just like this having his leg stitched closed, and Sherlock should be there, but he just… he can't.

On the rooftop John had just tipped his chin up to meet Sherlock's eye. There was blood on his face, smeared down the side of his jaw, his lips drawn into a tight, strained line.

Sherlock had dropped to his knees, one hand slipping against the tile, the other hovering. He could have held it against John's thigh, long fingers spread outward, his palm flat against the back of John's hand. Too quick, his mind’s eye spun out two outcomes at once, twin images: the lines of strain around John's eyes and mouth deepening as Sherlock pressed too hard; the spreading against the pale lines of his fingers as he failed to press hard enough.

When Sherlock hurts himself, John always attends carefully, fusses and bandages and salves pain Sherlock can't even feel. But with John's breathing gone quick and shallow, Sherlock couldn't bear to touch him.

"Not Brennan," Sherlock had said, which was ridiculous. He'd been chasing Brennan; he couldn't have been in two places at once. But John just tipped his head in the direction opposite the one from which Sherlock had come. Oh, stupid. _Obvious_. "A second man. An accomplice."

John's nod was a single quick jerk of his chin that accentuated the tense lines of his neck and shoulders.

"Your leg," Sherlock had demanded, already keying in a text to Lestrade. "How bad?" John's attempt at a dismissive shrug had ended with a sharp, hissed breath through his teeth. "Anywhere else?" John shook his head.

  
From: Lestrade 01:48  
Ambulance en route. What accomplice?  


"That's the question, isn't it?" Sherlock had spat out at his phone. He'd raised his eyes to find John watching him. "Oh, I know _you_ don't know," he'd snapped, which wasn't funny at all but had brought the rough shape of a laugh to John's lips all the same.

In the darkened exam room, Sherlock shoves himself upright and begins to pace along the narrow corridor between the examination table and the sink.

There had been no reason to suspect an accomplice; in fact, all signs had pointed to Brennan acting alone. But an accomplice there was. One who'd bring a knife to an inside-job burglary. Sherlock had missed the accomplice, and he'd missed that John wasn't behind him, and now…

The whole situation is simply unacceptable.

"Who?" Sherlock demands of the empty room, his voice too loud in his own ears. It doesn’t matter. His throat has gone tight, frustration and rage coalescing as a hot, sharp point just behind his eyes. John's blood is still dried dark in the lines of his fingers and Sherlock doesn't know what to do about any of it other than _what he does_.

Except that when it counts, when John needs him, what he does is _nothing_. Sherlock twines his fingers in his own hair, recalling the firm set of John’s jaw as he kept his two hands, slick with his own blood, flush against his own thigh, fingertips white with the effort of holding his own flesh closed.

He could have made a different choice. He could have hooked his arm under John's shoulder, helped him to his feet, supported him down to the street and into a cab. He can almost feel his voice shaping the words— _Baker Street_ —and the thought alone makes his pulse pound so heavy in his throat that it's difficult to breathe.

 _John hates hospitals_ , Sherlock had wanted to say when the paramedics arrived and finally—finally—found their way up to the roof. _Leave him with me_ , or: _Take him home._ But instead he'd simply stepped back and let them lift John onto the gurney. Let them carry him away.

Sherlock’s fingers pull at his hair, just hard enough to drag himself into his own body. His soles squeak as he turns. In a minute he'll step out, walk across the hall and push open the door to John's room, which means he needs to be here now.

Just another minute or two, Sherlock tells himself, and then he'll be ready. He just needs a bit more time.

* * *

The bright flare of the overhead light startles him. Sherlock spins on his heel and turns to see a middle-aged nurse in blue scrubs, one hand still on the doorhandle, the other arm full of a bundle of soiled linens.

"Oh!" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't know the room was—" She narrows her eyes, taking in Sherlock's face. "Do you need something?"

Sherlock forces himself to relax his hands at his sides. "Needed a bit of air. I'm here with a— a friend. He's just being seen to."

The nurse's brow furrows. "We haven't had any intakes since my shift started. Unless… oh, the aphone?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Now is not the time. "John."

She shrugs. "We cleared him to leave. I think we called a taxi for him." She leans back and sticks her head out of the doorway. "Janeane, you called a taxi for that aphone, what, an hour ago?"

"Closer to two."

The nurse returns her gaze to Sherlock's face, her mouth twisting into something like sympathy. "Sorry," she says. Then, after a moment. "Are you sure we can't do something for you? You look a bit—"

"I'm _fine_ ," he spits out, already pushing past her, because that might actually be the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He needs to get home.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8430708500/)

 

He never has trouble getting a taxi, but at this hour they're few and far between. The driver who finally stops for him takes his own bloody time signalling and merging into traffic.

"I _am_ in a bit of a hurry," Sherlock snaps, balancing his elbows on his knees. Christ, he could have run faster than this.

The driver's eyes flick up to meet Sherlock's in the rearview mirror. "Of course."

Sherlock forces himself to sit back in his seat. The driver raises his hand to rub the back of his neck, and Sherlock gets a glimpse of orange at his wrist; ageusic. His accent says well-educated. A well-educated ageusic driving a taxi?

"Something troubling you?"

Oh, obvious: well-educated, but not in London. Not in the UK at all. It's there in his voice. Southern Pakistan, most likely, near the border with India.

Sherlock forces himself to take a deep breath, swaying slightly as the taxi rounds the corner. "In. A. Hurry," he says.

A moment later, the car slows to a stop. In the mirror, the driver's eyes crease into what might very well be a smile. "Here we are, then, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock slams the door and turns on his heel, leaning down to the window as he fishes for his wallet. He doesn't even know if he has cash, what if—

— but the driver is already pulling the car away from the kerb.

Bloody Mycroft, Sherlock thinks savagely as the cab’s rear lights are swallowed by traffic, but he has other concerns at the moment. He finally manages to get his key in the lock on the fourth try—gripping it so hard that his fingers are white and bloodless, stark in the shadowed doorway—and takes the steps two at a time without bothering to remove his coat.

Finally, a lifetime after leaving the hospital, he stands on the first floor landing. He finds himself frozen, his hand hovering inches from the door.

One forced breath, then another. Better; that's better. The tight knot in his chest unlocks, just enough. Sherlock watches his own fingertips grip the doorknob, twist to slide the bolt. They might as well belong to someone else entirely.

John is waiting for him inside, half-lying along the sofa with his injured leg extended at an awkward angle. Through the window behind him, the sun is just beginning to light the sky. It must be the contrast making his face appear so paper-white.

No, not entirely bloodless. There are two spots of colour high on his cheeks. He's watching Sherlock's face, his own expression unreadable.

"You… the steps," Sherlock says at last, one arm still angled backward from his shoulder with his palm pressed flat to the sitting room door. "That can't have been good for your leg."

— which is stupid, _stupid_ , but John just tips his chin down and laughs, a quick, soundless shake of his shoulders that steals the apology from Sherlock's lips.

  
I was just about to text you. Now you're back I'll take something and sleep for a bit, if you don’t need me for anything.  


Sherlock blinks down at his phone. Water, he thinks; if John has pills, he'll need water. But there's a glass already to hand, on the endtable. He's taken care of that for himself, too.

"Fine," Sherlock says. His voice doesn't sound like his own. "That’s… fine. I don’t need you."

John’s mouth quirks upward at one corner. He slides a blister pack from his pocket, pops two pills free, and swallows them easily. His hand, when he sets the glass back on the table, is steady.

Sherlock is staring. He can't seem to stop.

John touches his tongue to his lip, then picks up his TID again.

You caught him?

About the rest, not a word.

Unacceptable.

* * *

  
**To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com**  
 **From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk**  
 **Date: 10 April 2012**  
 **Subject: A matter of interest**

I would like to consult with you regarding a private matter. I trust that Acton Instrumentation, Ltd. is keeping you up to date on the recent advances, though this particular project will require expertise outside your professional sphere.

How's the thumb?

SH  


  


  
**From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com**  
 **To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk**  
 **Date: 10 April 2012**  
 **Subject: Re: A matter of interest**

Mr Holmes,

Odd that you would have contacted me now. I was just on your website last week. Looks like you’ve been making quite the name for yourself. What can I do for you?

And the thumb has healed up nicely, thank you. Hard not to miss a thumb, but it certainly could have been worse.

Yours,  
Victor  


  


  
**To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com**  
 **From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk**  
 **Date: 10 April 2012**  
 **Subject: Re: A matter of interest**

I understand your injury required certain medical accommodations. Specifically, some additional modifications to your TID beyond the standard retrofit. What information might you be able to provide on that subject?

And though I’d hope it would go without saying: under no circumstances are you to bring this conversation to the attention of your employer.

SH

  


  
**From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com**  
 **To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk**  
 **Date: 10 April 2012**  
 **Subject: re: A matter of interest**

Mr Holmes,

It sounds a bit like you're suggesting I assist you in something that would violate the terms of my parole. If you aim to modify an assistive device, there are legal means of doing so.

If I'm wrong, of course, you have my deepest apologies.

I found some old notes of yours in my desk. Seems like as good an excuse as any to catch up. I'll be down my local after 7 on Thursday evening, if you want to pop round for a pint.

Yours,  
Victor  


[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8430708110/)   


* * *

25 May 2012

## Supposed Hate Crime Actually Suicide, Investigators Say

Investigators have uncovered new leads regarding the murder of Maria Gibson.

Gibson, an aphone and mother of two, was found dead by a pair of joggers on the Thor Bridge on 17 February. Cause of death was determined to be shock following lingual extraction. Gibson’s Textual Input Device was not found on her body, though her wallet and other personal possessions had not been stolen.

Investigators had previously determined Gibson’s murder to be part of a resurgence in anti-aphonic hate crimes. The discovery of the murder weapon in the riverbed last Friday evening, however, has led investigators to evidence that Gibson’s supposed murder was in fact a staged suicide.

( click for full article )

  


  
To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 8 June 2012  
Subject: Follow-up

To what extent would you consider specific phrasing essential to your personal communications?

SH

  


  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
Date: 8 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

Mr Holmes,

I'm not sure I understand the question. How did your project turn out?

Yours,  
Victor  


  


  
To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 8 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

The project is ongoing, though nearing completion.

As to my question: Specific phrasing. Is it essential, or would you be satisfied with broad strokes? My concern is the disparity between utility and aesthetic preference. I'm asking your opinion as an aphone.

SH

  


  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
Date: 9 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

Mr Holmes,

I can't speak for the whole variant group, of course, but in day-to-day matters I'd say utility trumps aesthetics. Can't say your partner would necessarily feel the same about it, though. You'll want to consult with him directly before making any final decisions.

Not done yet? Those projects that drag on can be difficult. Do you want to commiserate over a pint?

Yours,  
Victor  


  


  
To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 9 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

No need. I've gathered the necessary data and had success with several prototypes. What remains is a matter of syntax and final implementation.

  


  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
Date: 9 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

Mr Holmes,

You didn't answer my question about consulting with him directly. I can't be clear enough on this matter: you'll want to do that. Trust me.

Yours,  
Victor  


  


  
To: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
From: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 10 June 2012  
Subject: re: Follow-up

Duly noted. I'll treat your unsolicited concern with the consideration it merits.

SH

* * *

Two days later, Sherlock’s preparations are complete.

The timing is perfect. John is scheduled to depart for a medical conference in Zurich the following afternoon, which will leave him the morning to familiarise himself with his TID’s new capabilities. It’s a shame Sherlock won’t be there to witness the faces of the other attendees when they realise just how blind they’ve been, but he supposes he can’t have everything.

And when John returns, Sherlock will never have to fear that he won't be able to call for help when he needs to.

Sherlock forces his limbs to stillness, feigning sleep until he hears John's breath turn deep and sleep-even. Then Sherlock slides free of the sheets and retrieves John's TID from the bedside table, then makes his way into the hall, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

It's just gone 3 am when he finally replaces the back cover on the device’s casing. He could easily slip back into bed until John's alarm sounds in a few hours, but instead he remains at the kitchen table, checking and re-checking that the soldering has set correctly, making final adjustments to the new programming.

Victor Hatherley's information had been invaluable with the mechanical aspects of the project. He'd sat at the pub table, gripping his TID between the thumb and forefinger of his one whole hand, demonstrating the combination of forefinger swipes and tilts he used to spell out words since his injury. Even with his private modifications and years of practise the process was still infuriatingly tedious.

Sherlock had found himself staring at the thick, pale skin where Hatherley's thumb used to be, recalling the scene with the two murdered aphones: his own words— _Why tongues? Why not thumbs?_ —and the way John’s breath had caught, held, and finally shattered into a laugh.

Watching Hatherley hunt out the letters, Sherlock had found himself pressing his lips together against the urge to simply speak aloud the words he knew were coming—yes, he was well aware he'd need a soldering iron, he wasn't an idiot—and thought, _No. Not for John, not this; I can give him something better._

When Sherlock left the pub that evening, the detailed schematics folded inside the breast pocket of his coat would have been more than enough for Mycroft to have them both committed indefinitely. Yet for all that, it wasn't the mechanical modifications that required the most preparation, but the phrasing.

John's instinct for security has always tended more toward the physical than the electronic, making it easy enough to access the logs from his TID. Sherlock had expected the patterns to reveal themselves almost immediately, but confronted with the raw data, the truth was surprisingly messy. Truth be told, he'd been looking forward to this window into John's mind, but what he found in the logs was unsatisfying and fragmented.

Decontextualised, the data failed to resolve into anything quantifiable: mundane and oddly specific, shopping lists and answers to questions Sherlock has no memory of asking. Sherlock learned that when John makes small talk—Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper are identifiable, as are several of his colleagues at the surgery whose names Sherlock hasn’t bothered to retain—he tends to ask the same questions, more or less, with slight variation depending on the subject, then wait several minutes before his next statement.

Does John simply stand and listen while his conversation partner drones on about trivialities? He must. The thought is enough to make Sherlock's chest feel tight, even now. To speak to him as though his own thoughts don't matter, as though he's merely there as a sounding board… Christ.

Very little from interactions with patients, which is reasonable enough, considering that John must make use of the vocation-specific cards issued to all aphones.

In the end he settles on _Tell me what's wrong_ , _What are you doing?_ , and _Can I get you anything?_ as the most easily-accessible options. He briefly considers adding _That was incredible_ to the top-level options—the phrase appears with gratifying frequency and, upon examination of the back-end data, at such an astonishing variety of times that Sherlock's breath catches in his throat—but in the end he assigns that a gesture two layers down. It wouldn't do to have John think this project is about Sherlock's own ego, after all.

It’s still early morning when Sherlock hears John beginning to stir. He rolls the stiffness from his spine and turns his attention to the familiar sounds of John waking: the rustle of the sheets, the slap of John's hand against the top of the bedside table, the rattle of the drawer pull. A brief pause, then the creak of the springs as John sits up.

John emerges into the kitchen clad only in his pyjama bottoms, hair mussed from sleep, yawning and rubbing at the back of his neck. The question in his eyes is clear enough; Sherlock stands and holds out John's TID, a smile already twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"This should make things a bit easier for you.”

John's brows draw together in a quick frown, but he accepts the device from Sherlock's outstretched hand. He squints down at it, turning it over in his hands. After a moment he balances it on one palm and raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's with an intensity that makes the pulse feel heavy and tight in the base of Sherlock's throat.

"It shouldn't have added much weight," Sherlock says, puzzled. "What?"

John touches his tongue to his lip as he thumbs out his message, then turns the device so Sherlock can read the screen.

What exactly have you done?

  
"Each movement correlates to one of your most commonly-used phrases." He takes a quick breath. "I went through your logs, of course, to work out what those were. I'd have liked to make it location-specific, but that drained the battery too quickly."

The muscles in John's temples jump as he tightens his jaw.

You went through my logs?What are you doing?  


  


"It's a more direct means of inputting information. As to the logs, John, we really must discuss the appropriate amount of contact with my brother, because from the frequency of texts you seem to—"

The dark flash of John’s eyes makes Sherlock’s mouth snap closed on the next word. John holds his gaze, then turns the screen back around so he can read it. He blinks down at it, inhales sharply, and flips the screen again.

  
You went through my logs?What are you doing?Tell me what's wrong.What are you doing?  


  


Three turns, three stock phrases.

"It will take some adjusting, of course. I set up the gestures like a tiered menu, shake it once to get down to the next—"

John's thumbs fly over the keyboard, his brows drawing together.

  
Sherlock. No. This is not on.What are you doing?  


  


"As I say, it will take some… adjustment. Don't wave it around too much. You'll get used to it."

John taps out another message, then turns the TID with exaggerated care.

  
I was already used to it.  


  


"There, like that," Sherlock says, curling his lip into a one-sided smile.

John's rough exhale is nothing like a laugh.

  
This is illegal. You'll get arrested. I'LL get arrested.I'm going to  


  


"That one's meant to… you supply the relevant information." Sherlock forces himself to take a deep breath. "There are a lot of variables at work, so I may have incorrectly gauged which options would be the most efficient. We can make changes as we reassess."

John shakes his head, once. His throat moves convulsively as he swallows, and Sherlock finds himself bracing for— what? His eyes dart over John's face, seeking an explanation for the rapid, roughened pace of his breath. John's lips are pressed into a hard, thin line, the fingers of his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

This isn't the reaction Sherlock expected. He reaches out instinctively and John steps back, dropping his gaze to his TID. Then he turns to slam it down on the kitchen table and shoves past Sherlock toward the sitting room.

No, not _shoves_. Another man would have shoved past him, but John just twists his hips and shoulders to slide past Sherlock's body, a careful avoidance. In their narrow kitchen, John has managed to pass without touching him.

In the sitting room, John is bent over his desk, tugging open drawers and rifling through the contents, tension cording down his neck and shoulders. The morning sunlight spills across the skin of his back, washing out the roughened crater of his scar. Someone who didn't know to look for it might miss it entirely.

"John," Sherlock says, and gets no response.

In the desk, John finds a pad of paper. He grips the pen in his left hand; tight enough to whiten his nails, not tight enough to disguise its shaking.

"John, I—" Sherlock swallows, eyes following the tight, jerky movements of the pen across the paper. "I don't understand."

The snap of the nib is audible. John inhales, sharp, then turns his shoulders to hurl the pen at the wall over the fireplace. Sherlock hears it bounce off the wallpaper and roll away across the floor.

John closes his eyes and takes several jerky breaths, a visible effort at regaining control of himself, hands clenched tight. When his breathing starts to steady he reaches blindly for the paper, then holds it out to Sherlock with his eyes still closed.

The handwriting is pained to the point of near-unrecognisability.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8429697509/)

"There's nothing to fix," Sherlock says, the lack of conviction in his voice obvious even to his own ears. "It's not broken. It's... better." Meant to be, at any rate. He’s beginning to suspect he’s made a critical error in judgment.

John's shoulders jerk. He shakes the paper again, once.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and thinks of the care with which he'd attached the accelerometer, the checking and double-checking of the security of the circuit between them.

John's head is tipped forward. What Sherlock can see of his face is entirely unreadable.

"I can't," Sherlock says, finally. "Not here. But I'll… I can make arrangements."

John raises his head to meet Sherlock's eye. He nods once, a quick jerk of his chin, then turns on his heel to move toward the sitting room door. He's halfway there before he doubles back to snatch his TID from the table in the kitchen.

Sherlock stands, frozen in place, listening to the thud of John's footsteps on the stairs—heavy and slow, deliberate—and the decisive not-quite-slam of John's bedroom door.

  
To: Mycroft Holmes 07:16  
Need to arrange for repairs to John's TID. Not through official channels. SH  


  
From: Mycroft Holmes07:17  
You are, of course, aware to whom you're speaking.  


  
To: Mycroft Holmes 07:17  
It's currently inoperable. Legally, the fault is mine. He leaves this afternoon, will be gone six days. SH  


When no reply has come in after a minute, Sherlock thumbs out the next (expected, infuriating) message, then forces himself to wait five long minutes before hitting _send_.

  
To: Mycroft Holmes 07:22  
Please.  


  


  
From: Mycroft Holmes07:22  
I'll send him the information. If he hopes to make his 15:35 flight, he'll have to leave soon - repairs of this nature can take some time.  


Sherlock shoves his phone into the pocket of his dressing gown and curls up on the sofa with his back to the room. He scrapes his cheek along the cushion, swallowing hard against the sick, uncomfortable feeling curdling in his stomach.

A little over an hour later, he hears John's footsteps on the stairs. This time, his tread is heavy with additional weight. His suitcase, no doubt; John packs light, but a week at a professional conference demands enough clothing that even John won't be able to get away with a carry-on.

Sherlock braces himself, but the sitting room door remains closed. John's footsteps continue past the landing without even pausing, then down to the ground floor. Sherlock hears the distant, sharp clack of the front door deadbolt, then John is gone.

* * *

  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
From: john@johnwatsonblog.co.uk  
Date: 12 June 2012  
Subject line: I'm sorry

Made it to Zurich. Easy flight, passable hotel. I haven't been to Switzerland for years.

Look, Sherlock. About earlier. I was upset—and let me make it perfectly clear: I was right to be upset, because what you did was _not on_ —but leaving like that was a dick move. I'm sorry.

I know you don't really understand what it is to be dependent on something, but I'm dependent on my TID. Being cut off has not, in the past, gone well for me. You know that. I suppose I wasn't really cut off, with you right there, but… I reacted badly. Hell, there's no other way to put it: I was scared, and not thinking clearly. I don't mean that as an excuse, just an explanation.

I understand what you were trying to do. I appreciate the thought behind it, even if the execution was impractical.

But I need you to understand: I get along. I get along pretty bloody well, most of the time. You have to stop treating me like a problem that needs to be fixed.

In any event. Mycroft's contact took the whatever-it-was out—tell him thanks for that, by the way—so I'm all sorted. He said it must have taken you all night to arrange. Get some sleep tonight, won't you?

There's some sort of opening-night cocktail party going on down in the lobby. I should put in an appearance, at least. Ring me tomorrow if Lestrade doesn't send anything interesting your way.

\- John

P.S. - And tell me this, genius: what good is something that requires me to stand still to use it? I spend all my time chasing after you, you mad bastard.

  


Sherlock reads the email twice, then slams his laptop closed. It leaves the room dark, apart from the thin slice of streetlights coming in around the curtains.

He folds his hands together under his chin and narrows his eyes, staring across the sitting room at John's chair, shadowed and indistinct in the darkened room.

_I know you don't really understand what it is to be dependent on something._

If John were here, Sherlock would tell him… what? What could he possibly tell John about that that he doesn't already know?

For what must be the hundredth time since that night, Sherlock finds himself thinking of John in his bed, programming his TID, planning the precise way he would shape Sherlock's voice to his purposes.

Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales with a puff of air over his lips, recalling the urgent, shivery sensation of John's mouth on his skin. That… yes. John's words in his mouth and John's—Christ—John's tongue pressing into his body, and it had all been perfectly clear.

If John thinks Sherlock doesn’t know what it is to depend on something, then John is an idiot.

Sherlock’s thoughts drift to the box at the back of his closet shelf. The blue sellotape with its Health Department logo is still in place. He’d received his first kit—the only one he’d ever opened—on his fifteenth birthday. He’d carried it reluctantly to and from school for the required Aceptive Development course, then abandoned it in a bin behind a petrol station at the earliest opportunity. Every year after that, he returned from his tattoo upkeep appointment with a new box. He never so much as broke the seal.

To actually make use of one had always been an impulse entirely absent, but now….

An unfamiliar sensation, warm and dark, begins to flow along Sherlock's spine. He shifts against the sofa, seized by a sudden, inexplicable restlessness.

 _If John were here_ , he thinks, and his hips cup upward of their own volition. Pyjamas and dressing gown slide against each other, a motion transmuted into sound and the slight shift of the sofa cushions, the rasp of cloth on cloth on skin building into something that's too bright and far too much. He runs his tongue against the inside of his lower lip and brings his hand up to cover his eyes, as though force of will could hold this sensation inside his skin.

Half a dozen uneven breaths later, he flings himself to his feet and moves toward his bedroom. It's not— he's not _angry_ , exactly, but there's something akin to anger fuelling the unfamiliar urgency in his chest.

The box is just where he remembers it (top shelf, far left, behind the signed 1925 De Quincey he’d received for his birthday the year before). Sherlock simply holds it for a minute, the sharp edges of the folded cardboard making bloodless lines in the skin of his palms, and stares down at the blue-ink _ARSD_ printed on the lid.

He pries up the edge of the sellotape with his thumbnail, then forces himself to take a deep breath and moves to the bed. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it properly. He'd never quite been able to delete the lessons from school, all those years ago. He needs— what does he need? A towel. He retrieves one from the cupboard in the bathroom, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. Why the sudden urge to brush his teeth? It’s absurd.

Back in his bedroom, he folds the towel and sets it along one end of the bed. Then he settles himself beside it and lifts the lid from the box.

The contents aren't precisely the same as they were when he was fifteen, but close enough. Sherlock removes them one at a time, laying them along the towel in a neat line: the expected bottle of lubricant (water-based, large enough to make his throat feel tight); a small ivory-coloured massager made of a plastic resin, with two protruding legs curling away from the base; a thin ring meant to retract the foreskin and maximise the non-epidermal surface area; and a long silicone plug, battery-operated. The last appears to be a drab shade of green, which is either an attempt at institutional distance or Sherlock’s own warped perception.

The colour is irrelevant. _Focus_.

Sherlock slips off his dressing gown and slides his pyjama bottoms down over his hips, then folds back the duvet and stretches out beside the towel. He reaches out with his right hand to switch off the lamp. For the space of several long, slow breaths he simply lies in the dark, mind buzzing with the knowledge of what he's meant to do next but unable to bring himself to actually begin. Lying in the dark feels wrong, somehow. He flicks the light back on.

Sherlock squints down at his own body, at the pale, angular lines of his limbs, the line of dark hair visible below the hem of his t-shirt. That, too, feels wrong, for no reason he knows how to name, but after a moment he sits and pulls it over his head, the neck catching on his chin. Then he lies down again. The light is very bright (he could— but no, off isn't better, _leave it_ ) and the wash of it over his skin leaves him feeling entirely naked.

If he's going to get on with things, now is the time to do it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He lifts a hand, meaning to reach for the bottle of lubricant, but his fingers end up in his hair instead, twisting into his curls and pulling. Just enough.

His chest still feels tight with the urge to move, and he swallows hard against a sudden impulse to make a sound—any sound; the flat is so _quiet_ —but his cock is nearly entirely limp, any interest it might have shown in the proceedings having apparently abated.

The sight of his own fingers wrapping around it is… disconcerting. Sherlock is aware that he must do this in sleep—he wakes often enough with his pyjamas clinging clammily to his groin; his body taking care of its own needs without his conscious participation—but he hasn't reached for himself since— but no. No. That's not true, is it? He has; he tried, months earlier, with the taste of John's mouth still clinging to his tongue. Then, too, he'd felt the compressed urgency of _want_ singing beneath his skin, had shut his door and stretched out on his bed, taken himself in hand (carefully; so carefully) and pressed up and—

And nothing. _Nothing_. Which is what he’s getting now, staring down at his limp penis in his hand.

Sherlock bites back a harsh sound of frustration and reaches out for the lubricant. His hand hovers briefly near the plug, but the thought of something electric... no. Not tonight; not yet. Instead, he grabs the smallest ARSD. He rests the device on his lower abdomen and coats the fingers of his right hand. It runs down over his palm, messy; he fights the immediate impulse to wipe it away. Ridiculous, all of it.

He remembers the procedure well enough. He bends his right knee, sliding the sole of his foot up along the sheet until he can reach around his own hip and— no, that isn't right. He shifts his hips, trying to find a less unnatural position, but the movement is all awkward tension and no ease. Nothing like the way it was when John had— _no_.

Sherlock wrenches his shoulders and presses with his fingers, groping blind: fingertip to sensitive skin, nerve sparking against nerve until the margin for sensation narrows into oblivion. He breathes through his nose and explores his own flesh, inch by careful inch, until finally, _finally_ , his ring finger sinks inside. From there it's a series of fumbling, inexact motions to stretch his muscle just wide enough. He has long fingers, but the angle thwarts any attempt at depth beyond the first knuckle. The shallow intrusion sparks just enough sensation to make him shiver with the memory of the way John had pressed into him, hot and wet, each action unexpected despite Sherlock’s own voice having commanded it.

There's nothing of surprise here in the mechanical, rote manipulation of his own body. Sherlock tries to think of something, anything, to stir himself to any real interest, but his mind keeps coming back to John or—worse—to that long-ago classroom, gawky aceptive boys in their uniforms clutching their first ARSD kits while the lecturer droned on about _reproductive responsibility_.

Sherlock picks up the small plastic toy still resting by his hip and grips it gingerly in his left hand. He's aware, distantly, of the way his abdominal muscles are bunching and flexing beneath his skin, the expansion-contraction of his ribcage as he forces himself to breathe deep and even, just as he'd been taught.

He might as well be watching someone else's body for all the connection he feels to it. It’s nothing at all like looking into John’s eye while he took himself in hand; his own pale hand against his stomach is nothing like watching John’s tanned fingers grip the muscles of his thighs.

Watching won’t help.

He closes his eyes.

It's better in some ways, worse in others. He carefully positions the toy—and that's what it is, really, high-flying governmental terminology aside—where he knows it needs to go, skin and plastic slippery and elusive, and _pushes_.

A low sound shakes out of him as his body contracts around the shape of the device, drawing it inward until it settles home against— _oh_.

Sherlock's eyes fly open. He blinks up at the ceiling, gasping for breath.

"God," he breathes, and then, as an involuntary muscle contraction shifts the device again: "Oh, _oh_ ," which is ridiculous. He raises his head off the pillow and runs his gaze down the length of his own body to where his hips are flexing, just a bit. He doesn't— he doesn't know what to do with his legs. He wants to press them down against the mattress, but when he does that the pressure inside of him increases, coalesces into something hard and bright. He finds his heel slipping as he struggles to push up and pull together and draw in, all at once.

And there, just _there_ , for a moment he thinks he has it, the blood beginning to pulse low in his groin. He tightens his grip around himself—nothing, too many nerve endings sparking together into that infuriating blank, but he can see that he's beginning to grow hard—and draws his hand up, slowly, just as John had done.

But— no. His hand, his cock, his skin sliding against his own skin: it _isn't going to work_. Sherlock slips a thumb beneath the edge of his foreskin, sliding it lightly over the head of his cock, and the friction fizzes along his spine. His hips nudge down into the mattress of their own accord, making the device inside of him rub against his prostate, too hard and too sudden, sharp and unyielding and nothing like what he wants.

Sherlock shakes his head, pressing it hard into the pillow. The fingers of his left hand are in his hair again, smearing lubricant across his cheek. He tries to breathe through the sensation, but his throat is a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter around his inhale until it shatters.

"Out," he hears himself gasp to the empty room, "get it _out_ ," which is nonsense. There's no one there but him. His hand is shaking and slick, every shivering stutter of his hips sending more heat sparking up the back of his neck. Too much, far too much, and if he could just stop himself from moving maybe he— but he can't, can't do anything, his body lost and helpless in the face of this unfamiliar intrusion, outside of his control.

Finally—finally—he coaxes his fingers into position and manages to grip the toy by one of its curved handles. He's pulling too fast, he knows—it's dangerous, especially for him—but the relief of the lost contact is immense and immediate. From the moment it leaves his prostate he can breathe again.

The sound the device makes as it slides free of his body is disgusting, and Sherlock can't help the way he groans. He curls onto his side, facing away from the towel, and draws his knees up. He tosses the horrid piece of plastic over his shoulder. It bounces once on top of the duvet, then hits the floor with a dull clatter.

Sherlock smears his hands along the side of his hip, leaving shiny, tacky trails of lubrication in their wake. He just— he wants them clean, and he doesn't want to look at the towel and its stupid, careful row of toys.

Is this what other aceptives do? Is this what the clerk was picturing, year after year, when he sent Sherlock home with his new kit? Christ. _Christ_.

Sherlock's hair tangles around his fingers in sticky clumps. Soon, he knows, he's going to be disgusted with himself for touching anything with his hands still in such a state, but now he— he needs this. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can't breathe.

Gradually, at last, his pulse slows. When he cracks his eyes open, the light is still far too bright. Sherlock rolls forward onto his stomach and reaches one long, bare arm to switch it off. It doesn't make a difference.

* * *

Later, when he can summon the energy, he gets up and makes his way into the bathroom. He stands under the stream of the shower for what John would say is far too long, watching the water course over the planes of his chest and trying to work out what has all gone so thoroughly awry.

When he finally steps out onto the bathmat and wraps his dressing gown around his shoulders, he still doesn’t have an answer.

It isn’t until later, when he’s sprawled along the sofa in the sitting room, that it hits him.

The other line from John’s email. _A problem you want to fix._

Sherlock tips his head back against the armrest and brings his arm up to bury his eyes in the crook of his elbow. "How can you not see it?" he spits out, but the room remains dark and silent around him.

It's not _John_ that's the problem, it's— it's the rest of it. The whole unacceptable mess.

Even in the wake of what he’s done (or, perhaps, because of it) Sherlock feels as though his skin is too tight, his body too small for its own bones. He draws his dressing gown closer around his shoulders and presses himself into the cushions. _Here_ , he tells himself, _stay here_. He can’t seem to remember why it’s so important, just that it is.

There have been nights like this before, of course. When he was nineteen: endless, wide-open nights with nothing in his head but the bright, fizzing promise of _more_. None of the treatments ever had more than a passing effect, of course, but those nights....

Sherlock shoves himself upright, unable to abide motionlessness even a moment longer.

How is it possible that John doesn't understand?

It's not that he wants John to be different, of course. It's not that. It's just _unfair_ , all the idiots in the world and John one of the few who might have something to say that would be worth hearing. That army buddy of his. Godfrey Emsworth. Things had looked so promising, when he turned up, and then in Baskerville, but… no.

Godfrey Emsworth. Sherlock had intended to honour John’s request that he stay out of the investigation, but he's seen the logs on John's TID. John's been asking after him, casually-phrased inquiries at carefully precise intervals. Of course it's bothering him that his former squadmate has gone missing.

Well. This is a chance to kill two birds with one stone. John asked him to stay out of Godfrey's case, but he also wants his friend located, and Sherlock's never been one for modesty. And besides, Sherlock already knows where he is, doesn't he? Knows who has him, at least, which is very nearly the same thing.

By the time sunlight begins to filter in around the sitting room curtains, Sherlock's mind is made up: he'll find Godfrey Emsworth, which means he must first locate Irene Adler.

Half an hour after that, he has a plan.

## The Science of Deduction

**13 June 2012**

### A matter of some urgency

Information required regarding the progression of radiation sickness in a human subject.

Relevant information may be left on the forum.

* * *

## The Science of Deduction

### Recent Forum Posts

**Forensics_Professional**  
 _re: A matter of some urgency_

Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to use google.

http://lmgtfy.com/?q=radiation+poisoning

——

**SH**  
re: _Don’t tell me...._

Yes, Anderson, very helpful.

——

**Mike Stamford**

Do we need to be worried about you?

——

**Molly Hooper**  
re: _Do we need..._

I was wondering the same thing. He hasn’t been by to see me in a while.

——

**Forensics_Professional**  
re: _I was wondering..._

Probably out harvesting his own.

——

**Arthur S.**  
re: _Probably out harvesting..._

You can’t harvest radiation. You have to grow it in a lab.

——

**S. Sawyer**

Good lord. John’s away for ONE WEEK. He can’t leave you alone for a minute, can he.

  
From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 14 June 2012  
Subject: Your website

In light of our conversations, your most recent post has me a bit concerned. I told you I’d keep your project between us, but you should know that I have no qualms about breaking that promise in the interest of health and safety.

Now. What information do you need?

Yours,  
Victor

  
From: victor_hatherley@gmail.com  
To: holmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk  
Date: 15 June 2012  
Subject: re: Your website

Mr Holmes?


	4. Gravitational Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated downloads available in [PDF](https://www.dropbox.com/s/4pryqqrtq3gtggc/ComplementaryCh4.pdf) and [ePub format](https://www.dropbox.com/s/vompappg44mq5uk/ComplementaryCh4.epub). I'm trying something new by hosting these on Dropbox, so if it doesn't work, let me know.
> 
> This chapter contains some descriptions of illness that aren't quite so much graphic as eugh-inducing, but forewarned is forearmed and all that.
> 
> Special guest co-writing in this chapter by HiddenLacuna, who is both a saint AND a genius, and contributed the letters to the editor.

  
From: Mycroft Holmes 09:14  
Our office got a rather intriguing phone call last night. Your name came up. I trust you aren't in need of my assistance.  


  


  
From: Mycroft Holmes 09:19  
I do hope you aren't about to create a difficult situation for me.  


  


  
To: Mycroft Holmes 09:21  
That is not, nor has it ever been, my intention. No assistance required, though as you say 'difficult': I'm expecting a visitor in the next few days. She keeps a rather erratic schedule. I'm forced to rely on luck that she won't arrive unannounced. - SH  


  


Late that night Sherlock walks around the flat, opening all the windows to the night air—the recent unseasonable chill will serve his purposes perfectly—then pulling the curtains closed to block out the streetlights. He steps into the bathroom and strips off his clothing, leaving it in a heap atop the tank of the toilet. Bright sparks of light glance off the clumps of agar floating in the tub to dance across the wall in lively, shifting patterns.

Sherlock checks the temperature of the water. 18.2˚ C. Perfect. He turns back to the sink, reaching out with his right hand to pick up the grater—Mrs Hudson's; he'll have to sterilise it before returning it to her—resting on the counter. In the overhead light, his eyes are already gratifyingly dark-circled, nearly hollow. In a day's time the effect will be thoroughly convincing, even for someone as sharp-eyed as Irene Adler.

He keeps his eyes on the mirror, watching himself rasp the grater across the pale expanse of his chest. The skin darkens after the first pass; after two more, he has scraped the top layer of skin free. Gradually, it takes shape: a broad, irregular swath that could easily be the splash from a chemical burn.

Blood begins to well up against his skin, dark and gleaming, before spilling over to flow downward in swift rivulets. Sherlock holds the blade of his left hand against his hip, cupping his palm upward to catch the rivulets before they can splash down to stain the lino. He grabs a handful of tissue and blots hastily at the blood, then drops the soiled tissues into the toilet and flushes them down.

Sherlock presses his palm flat against the tiled wall as he slips first one foot, then the other, below the surface of the water. The disturbance sends the globules of agar bobbing away. When he settles his weight against the back of the tub, the water laps against his sternum. He slides lower until the fresh wound on his chest is submerged, moving slowly lest he slip and crack his head on the edge of the tub. Wouldn't do to have Irene find him like that, after all.

Sherlock raises one forearm above the water, confirming that, yes, it _is_ more pale than usual, follicles already contracting in reaction to the chill. The blood still seeping from his chest is already clouding the bathwater, making the clumps of agar stand out like misshapen ice floes.

He reaches out to snatch his mobile from atop the pile of clothing, swiping with his thumb to set the alarm. Eight hours, well shy of the ten-hour window for survival at this temperature. Best to leave plenty of time for the the bacteria to find their way into his freshly-abraded skin.

It will be a long night, but within forty-eight hours, he should know the whereabouts of not only Irene Adler but Godfrey Emsworth. More than enough to justify a bit of chill he can't even feel.

And besides, he thinks wryly, dropping his mobile back onto the bathmat and pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin, at least it will give him some time to think.

* * *

When his mobile chimes, Sherlock has to fight his eyes open. His arm is heavy and uncoordinated when he reaches out to try to silence the sound, dropping his palm against the floor, again and again, groping blindly until finally he lights on the plastic casing of his mobile. His fingers are… have the buttons always been this small?

"Shut _up_ ," he snaps. Tries to. It comes out rough, his tongue thick and useless behind his teeth, but finally the blasted beeping stops, and that's… better. That's better. He drops the mobile back on the floor and drags his arm back into the tub, under the water, and lets his eyes fall closed again.

No. _No_. This isn't— he has to—

His exit from the tub is an undignified scramble, a controlled fall over the ceramic onto the lino: knee to hip to side until he's sprawled outright, half on his back with one ankle still hooked over the edge of the tub. Most of the water seems to come with him, soaking his clothes through and settling into broad pools against the floor. He gets a hand on the seat of the toilet and levers himself upright, or near enough, crouched with one knee on the floor. His toes, now that he can see them, are a deep bluish purple. In the lower edge of his vision, his chest is rising and falling rapidly but his head is swimming, as though there isn't enough oxygen in the air dragging in and out of his lungs.

He stares down at his own palms, frowning in confusion. The skin is… wrong. Loose. Why? His fingers and, when he turns them over, the beds of his nails are blue.

It isn't until he catches a glimpse of his own chest—the bloody mess of raw tissue on the outer edge of his pectoral muscle—that he remembers what he's doing at all.

"Stupid," he mutters, shaking his head at his own reflection, the pale skin drawn close around the bones of his face. His hair is plastered to his neck, clinging in wet clumps from which water streams over his shoulders. Sherlock follows one of the drops with his eyes, all the way down his shoulder. It skirts the convex bow of his ribcage and finally falls free to the floor.

He stares at the damp spot it's left on the lino. Blinks. Blinks again. What was he doing?

Water. He was in the tub. Cold water. Hypothermic; the only explanation. Of course. Of course, he was lowering his temperature, he was… something about the necessary ambient temperature for... bacteria. Bacterial growth. That can't be right; bacteria thrive in warm environments. Why can't he _think_?

Cold. It's an odd, detached thought. He's cold; this is what it's like to be cold.

"Oh," he breathes.

Cold is _hateful_.

He slants a glance at the messy heap of his own clothing. Wet; how did it get wet? He takes a half-step back, his foot actually splashing audibly as it touches down. There's a sheen of water across the surface of the floor. _Focus_. He bends down to retrieve his mobile—still dry; that's something, at least—then has to grab hurriedly at the sink to prevent himself from overbalancing as a wave of dizziness whites out his vision.

He's cold now. He needs to keep his core temperature down, or the… the bacteria…..

"P. luminescens," he spits out, the name rising from somewhere below the fog in his head. If his tongue stumbles over the syllables, at least there's no one here to hear it.

His feet carry him, more or less, out of the bathroom and across the hall. Dressing gown at least; surely it won't do any harm to put on his dressing gown.

In the end, he manages to thread one arm through a sleeve before simply falling onto his bed, on top of the duvet. (He must— he can't—) He twists his fingers into the lapels of his dressing gown, pulling the thin material as close around his shoulders as he can manage, curling his body around his drawn-up knees, and falls into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

The first time Sherlock wakes, it's to the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut. He sits up faster than wisdom would dictate, and is left to grind the heel of his hand against his eye, vision swimming with the sudden change of elevation.

"John?" he calls, straining past the heavy pounding of his blood in his ears for any sign that there's someone in the flat. His head still feels like it's been stuffed full of cotton wool. Infuriating. "Mrs Hudson?"

He levers his way unsteadily to standing, frowning at the door. It rattles slightly in the frame. He swivels his head on his neck, until the inward billow of the curtains catches his eye.

Of course. Blown shut by the wind. Nothing to worry about, then, which is just as well, as he's somehow once again sitting on his bed. He doesn't remember sitting down.

He drops his chin and draws back the shoulder of his dressing gown. His fingers, against the dark material, seem less blue than they had last time he looked. The abrasion on his chest seems to be inflamed, the skin dark and slightly swollen. Sherlock prods carefully at his flesh, watching it turn white and bloodless, the slight delay before it springs back after he removes his fingers.

Still on track, then. Good.

His mobile is resting on the quilt. Sherlock thumbs the screen on, but there's no message from Mycroft.

Sherlock lifts his chin again, gaze wandering to the closed door. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. Swallowing is an effort that lights up the inside of his throat like sandpaper, but if he's to present a convincing picture of radiation poisoning when Irene arrives, he can neither drink nor eat. If the effects are intensified by his body's attempt to raise his core temperature and fight off the infection in his chest, well. He's never let his transport dictate his actions before; he's hardly going to start now.

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, it's to find his right arm and shoulder tangled beneath the duvet. His unconscious body seeking warmth against his wishes. Fascinating, under other circumstances; infuriating in his present one.

Sherlock groans against the dull throbbing in his head. He drags himself first to one edge of the mattress, then the other, until he can tug the blanket and duvet free. His arms are heavy and uncoordinated, but finally he manages to push the bedding into an untidy pile, which he then shoves over the edge of the mattress to the floor.

Sherlock lets himself fall back along the bare bed. His chest is heaving, his heart hammering against his sternum. He licks his lips with a dry tongue, tasting salt.

Despite the heavy, fogged feeling behind his eyes, Sherlock finds himself unable to slip back down into sleep. There are harsh, insistent impulses to move electrifying his sluggish limbs: his body protesting the enforced inaction against what it perceives as a full-scale assault, attempting to stir him to action.

He rolls his head on the pillow, narrowing his eyes at the bedside clock. It's nearly half four. Well over forty-eight hours since he posted that message on his forum. Where the hell is Irene?

He shifts to the edge of the bed and reaches underneath in search of his laptop, groping blindly across the floor. When he finds it, his fingers refuse to grip the casing properly, and it very nearly slips from his grasp as he drags it up and onto the bed beside him.

Sherlock curls on his side, pillowing his head on one folded arm. When he opens the laptop, the sudden flood of light from the screen is enough to make him hiss in annoyance. It's an effort to get his clumsy, unresponsive fingers to successfully type in the url of his own website. In the end he's reduced to pecking at the keyboard with his index fingers; when he finally manages to get there, he has to screw one eye closed to bring the screen into focus.

Not a single one of the new posts on his forum could possibly be from Irene. He pages through the admin portal for John's blog, on the off-chance, but all of the recent comments are either people Sherlock recognises or unambiguous spam.

She must be _somewhere_ , he thinks savagely, opening another tab and keying in the URL for the BBC homepage. She's paying attention, he knows she is. It's just a matter of working out _where_ , and _how_.

There's always something.

* * *

## New Metal Alloy Could Revolutionise Portable Power

A research team at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), led by Dr Sophia Rodriguez, have discovered a new nuclear-grade metal alloy, trademarked Ensaloy. Scientists predict that Ensaloy could replace zirconium-based alloys to become one of the primary materials used in a variety of components in nuclear reactors.

While early detractors cite the expense of replacing existing components, a spokesman for Dr Rodriguez's team dismissed these concerns in a press conference on Tuesday, claiming that "Ensaloy offers the same corrosion resistance as zirconium alloys but with much greater ductility and resistance to absorption of thermal neutrons [which combine with other factors so that] … reactors built with Ensaloy would be capable of generating twice the power in one-eighth the space."

This discovery comes in the wake of recent progress in the development of a [nuclear battery](http://www.gizmag.com/smaller-nuclear-battery/13076/). Dr William Russell, a mechanical engineer at City University London who has been working in tandem with the team from MIT, is optimistic that these and related developments could lead to the invention of a "perpetual" power source that could be available to consumers as early as 2015. "Applications would be virtually limitless," Russell claimed. "It would revolutionise the whole industry of portable power. Anything that takes a battery now would benefit: cars, mobile phones, assistive devices, pacemakers, you name it."

( Click for full article )

## U.S. Approves First Method to Give the Blind Limited Vision

The Food and Drug Administration approved a technology Thursday called the “artificial retina,” which enables people with certain types of blindness to detect shapes like people, cars and crosswalks.

( [Click for full article](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/02/15/health/fda-approves-technology-to-give-limited-vision-to-blind-people.html?smid=pl-share) )

  
From: John Watson 17:36  
Just finished a talk on rare blood disorders of S Asia. The presenter was talking absolute bollocks. You'd have had a lovely time picking him apart.  


* * *

The room is dark, but there's a faint, wan glow illuminating the sheet in front of his chest.

When Sherlock slips back down into sleep a few moments later, he's smiling.

* * *

  
From: John Watson 07:18  
Lestrade must be keeping you busy. That's good to hear.  


  


## DAILY MAIL

### LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

**TO THE EDITOR:** _Re: Razzling Rogerers:_ With the recent release of the NHS' new rechargeable vibrating stimulation devices as a standard part of the ARSD kit, I find myself profoundly disturbed to my very core. I take up my metaphorical pen to denounce the coercion of the aceptive into today's sex-gone-mad society. Aceptives were created by the Good Lord to be free from the temptations of the flesh. Why, then, should the Naughty Nanny State take it upon itself to pervert nature? It is absolutely disgusting that immoral sex toys should be distributed at every upkeep visit, even to teenagers and those outside of the bounds of holy matrimony. Shall we allow every aceptive male to literally "diddle the day away"? I am not a bigot - I believe Aceptive males should be able to reproduce, with a doctor's assistance, in order to pass along their genes and the possibility of having children with a suitable heterovariant wife. I call all right-minded people reading (or hearing upon an ORS) this letter to join me in writing letters directly to the Queen. God Bless England! - Mr. N. Plimpsett, Anosmic, Slough.

**TO THE EDITOR:** _Re: Razzling Rogerers:_ As an aceptive woman, I would like to cry "shame on you!" upon the government for once again ignoring the needs of aceptive females. Additional funding must be diverted toward providing women with the long-denied pleasure males seem to command as a birthright. My unfeeling sisters - we must be silent in bed no longer! - Ms G. Bickford, Aceptive, Surrey.

**TO THE EDITOR:** _Re: Suicide on Thor Bridge:_ What a typical show of aphone cunning. They should be locked up. There might have been children on that bridge! When will society realize that aggies are simply not to be trusted around decent, properly varianted folk? Also, the level of detail in your article was disgusting. - Mrs. L. Hayes, Anoptic, Swindon. [Editor's Note: The views expressed here do not necessarily reflect the views of the Daily Mail.]

**TO THE EDITOR:** _Re: Freak TID explosion leaves aphone handless, blinded:_ What an utter tragedy. My own TID has been overheating lately, and I shall certainly replace it immediately. I've been following the reports of this new "experimental" "perpetual power" battery, but I won't be going anywhere near it until the safety has been well and truly demonstrated. I urge others to do the same. My heart goes out to Mr. Whelan and his family. I would like to spread the word that donations may be made in Whelan's name to The Voiceless Foundation, Bank of England, Account # 0347 229 09580. I hope that those reading this will stir themselves to a show of British charity and give generously. - Mr. J. Muircheartaigh, Aphone, London.

  


  
From: Mycroft Holmes 14:29  
Your guest appears to be en route.  


The transition from bed to floor is a messy one, a haphazard stacking of spine over hips over legs that almost ends with Sherlock pitching head-first into the bedside table. He presses the flat of his hand to the wall and uses that for support until the floor steadies enough beneath his feet to get on with things.

'En route' could mean almost anything, but best be on the safe side. A poorly-executed ruse would be worse than no ruse at all.

In the kitchen, he fumbles a glass out of the cabinet. He fills it with water and sets it on the counter, running his tongue over his dry lips as he pours salt into the water. He fishes a spoon out of the drawer and stirs until the crystals dissolve. The clink of metal against glass and the swirling motion of the liquid are oddly hypnotic, but finally he sets the spoon aside and makes his way back into his bedroom. His hand, where it's wrapped around the glass, appears to be shaking; more than a bit of the liquid sloshes out to splash against the carpet. 

No matter.

Sherlock has to go back for the bin—he'd forgotten; how had he forgotten?—but finally perches himself on the edge of the bed. He takes a deep breath then drinks the water down, as quickly as he can. Even laden with salt, the sensation of liquid washing over the parched tissues of his mouth and throat is bliss. Sherlock tips the glass up, swallowing the last, salty half-inch of water, then sets the glass behind the leg of the bedside table.

A few shaky breaths later and he's bent over the bin between his knees, throat heaving as he brings up yellowish water that splatters sickeningly atop several-days-old coffee grounds. The retching stops and Sherlock gets enough breath to groan, dragging in a hasty inhale before his stomach rises again. He curls forward, his body entirely outside his control, coughing and coughing, choking, Christ, unable to force his chest to expand enough to let in any air. 

The spasming subsides and Sherlock leans back, propping himself on one elbow, gasping through his open mouth. The scent of vomit is clinging to the back of his throat and in his nose. Sherlock flares his nostrils and swallows hard, trying to clear it, and—

He very nearly misses the bin altogether this time as another wave of vomiting spasms through him. All that comes up this time are strings of bright yellow bile. Sherlock wipes it away from his upper lip with a haphazard, jerking swipe of his forearm.

Sherlock leaves the bin where it is and manages, eventually, to drag his legs up onto the bed. His hands, curled and limp on the sheet in front of him, are shaking uncontrollably. Well, no harm now, Sherlock supposes, with Irene 'en route,' so he reaches over the side of the mattress to drag the discarded heap of bedding up to cover himself. The instinct to burrow into it and tuck them up around his chin is very nearly too strong to ignore, and he can do nothing about the way his body curls in on itself—his animal flesh protecting its soft centre; mere biology, and infuriating all the same—so he settles for turning on his side and drawing the covers back to expose the wound on his chest.

It's glowing faintly in the dim light.

Well. That much, at least, has gone according to plan.

* * *

"You look like hell."

Sherlock forces his eyes open. There's just enough evening sunlight filtering in around the edges of the curtains to reveal Irene Adler standing in the doorway. She has her hair drawn up in a severe twist, the bow of her lips artfully outlined in what is no doubt a lurid red. 

Sherlock swallows a groan. Her presence here was the point of this whole exercise. There's an outcome he needs, he knows, it, but— but what? He can't seem to think past the heavy, fogged-over feeling in his head.

Irene runs her gaze deliberately over Sherlock's body, then meets his eye with an expression of cool disgust. She wrinkles her nose. "Oh, you are in a bad state. And with no one here to take care of you." Her mouth twists in a mockery of sympathy.

Sherlock refrains, narrowly, from outright rolling his eyes. "John is—"

"John is out of the country for several more days." Irene presses her hand flat against the doorframe, then slides her palm up to lean close against it. The long, pale line of her arm stands out in stark contrast to the dark wood. "And I don't think you've been entirely behaving yourself in his absence."

Sherlock struggles upright, leaning back against the headboard. The exhausted slope of his shoulders isn't all pretense. "You wouldn't know _behaving myself_ if it bit you."

Irene laughs, a harsh, quick sound. "I know it doesn't look like _that_." She waves a hand, indicating his chest, and Sherlock draws the duvet hastily up around his shoulders as though meaning to hide the wound from her. From the wry quirk of her lip, he can see it works. "And you shouldn't make offers you don't mean to keep." Her smile is all teeth. "It's impolite."

Sherlock shifts his shoulders against the headboard, clears his throat, and utterly fails to come up with a response. He is not, perhaps, at his best.

"God," Irene says, "it's foul in here. Let's get the window open, at least."

"Don't," Sherlock protests, but she's already turning to draw back the curtain from the bedroom window. She makes a small sound of surprise at finding it already open. The flood of light is enough to make Sherlock shrink back against the headboard, an entirely involuntary flinch that would no doubt be humiliating if he were capable of feeling anything other than perfectly wretched.

"Goodness, you're in a state."

Sherlock raises a shaking hand to shield his eyes. Tries to, at least; he can't seem to straighten his elbow. The muscles of his upper arm seem to be locked solid beneath his skin.

"Close them," he manages, pitching his voice low. "Please."

Irene says nothing, but after a moment he hears the slide of the curtain as she draws them shut again. He peels his eyes open, and the relief of the accustomed semi-darkness is enough to make him want to shake with relief.

He doesn't thank her, at least, which is something. This— this wasn't how this was supposed to go.

Sherlock forces his face into a controlled expression, trying to regain some modicum of dignity, and Irene watches him do it, and the only thing that keeps him from snarling with fury is that he doesn't think he can summon the energy.

"So," Irene says, what feels like a long time later, "you wait until your pet doctor has gone. Something dangerous, then. And more fool you; it seems you could have used his help." She moves away from the window to lean against the side of the wardrobe. She's never more than a step's distance away from the wall. Keeping to the perimeter of the room; keeping her distance. Cautious and trying to hide it.

Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line and issues his first challenge. "You're keeping your distance."

"And you think I shouldn't." It is in no way a question. Sherlock lets his eyes drop, and doesn't miss her triumphant huff of breath. "I'm not a fool, Mr Holmes," she says, after a moment. "I'll thank you not to take me for one." Sherlock shakes his head, once—cautiously; the room already tipping dizzying around him—and she makes an exasperated sound. "Radiation. You think I didn't put it together?"

Sherlock arranges his face in a parody of shock, a transparent feint at ignorance. "Radiation?"

"Don't play games with me. You went to Baskerville, and now—" She waves one well-manicured hand in a gesture that encompasses Sherlock's current state. "You brought something out with you. You're going to tell me what it is."

Sherlock forces a laugh up his throat. "Oh, is that what brought you here? And here I'd rather hoped this was a personal visit."

Irene's eyebrow shoots up. "Sentiment, Mr Holmes?" Sherlock aims for a derisive laugh, but it breaks into a cough. When he quiets, she says, "I can do personal, if that's what you need."

"For the right price."

She laughs. "Of course. I'm not a charity."

Sherlock keeps his face deliberately blank. If he overplays his hand now, all of this will have been in vain. "Not even for a dying man?"

"Especially not. Favours are the currency of my business, and from the looks of you, there's not much time left for repayment."

Irene crosses her arms in front of her chest. Sherlock's eye falls on the neat line of her forearms, outlined against the dark material of her dress. Even from this distance, he can see that her skin is prickled with chill.

Sherlock twists his fingers in the duvet and shifts his stiff legs beneath the sheets, fighting to keep his focus. "Payment in advance, then."

For the space of several long breaths, Irene keeps her eyes on his face, her own unmoving. When she speaks, her voice is low and carefully measured. "And what is it you need, Mr Holmes, that you aren't getting?"

"I don't—" he begins, but has to press his mouth closed against a sudden wave of nausea. Sherlock curls forward while the muscles of his abdomen heave, long, disorientating spasms that leave him breathless, but nothing comes up.

When the urge passes and Irene has watched him regather his composure, she says, in a voice curled through with wry amusement, "Oh, yes. Look at you. Whyever would I think you needed anything from me, when you're doing so well on your own?"

Sherlock lifts his head to fix her with a glare, but even he can feel that it lacks its usual force. "If I am indeed, as you seem to think, _dying_ , then what use would I have for anything you might tell me?"

In the low light, Irene's eyes are gleaming. 

"Men like you always have use for information. Information is power. But I don't give it away for free, and fair's fair. Name your price." Her lip curves into what might be a genuine smile. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Sherlock drops his gaze to where his hand is clenched against the duvet. Careful; he has to be so careful. He takes a deep breath. "Why do you think I'd have any interest—"

"Because I know you. Because you posted a note on your website rather than contacting that brother of yours. Because you weren't surprised to see me." She presses herself upright and moves quickly to the chair, dropping herself into it with a grace jarringly out of place in Sherlock's filthy sickroom. Still several metres of air between them, a cautious distance that would do absolutely nothing if Sherlock really were exhibiting signs of radiation sickness.

Sherlock watches her face, keeping his own carefully blank, and makes no move to speak.

"You're a clever man, Mr Holmes. You have something worth sharing, and you're hardly one to stand on modesty. So go on then," she says, leaning forward with her elbows balanced on her open knees. "Impress me."

Sherlock forces himself to take a deep breath as though considering. "Godfrey Emsworth."

"Who?"

Sherlock allows his irritation to play across his face. "Disingenuous doesn't suit you. The aphone from Dartmoor." 

She tilts her head to one side, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why?"

"John. They knew each other, he's…." Sherlock lets his gaze fall away from hers, just for a moment. When he meets her eyes again, they're bright with anticipation. Good. If she believes Sherlock has just shown his hand, so much the better. 

"How touching," she says, condescension thickening her voice.

"Call it a whim." Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I don't like to leave a puzzle unsolved."

At that, Irene laughs. "That's more like it." She leans back. "I don't have him."

Sherlock swivels his head on his neck in an exaggerated sweep of the room. "Clearly." His vision is hazy, and he fights down a wave of genuine nausea as he struggles to bring her back into focus. Christ.

"All right, then. You tell me what you brought out of Baskerville, and I'll tell you what I know about Emsworth's whereabouts."

Sherlock swallows hard, trying to force some moisture into his mouth. His gums and tongue feel stiff, coated with the residue of the salt water. The acrid smell still rising from the bin beside the bed is filling his nostrils, making his stomach roil as his body utterly fails to recognise that there's nothing left to bring up. Sherlock presses his lips together and tries to will his muscles to steadiness.

"I'll make it easy for you," Irene says after a moment, keeping her eyes on his face. "It's a power source. A nuclear battery. Small, portable, nearly unlimited lifespan." She lifts her chin. "Tell me if I'm getting warm."

"Mm." He doesn't have to feign the wave of weakness that washes over him.

"Either you've brought out a prototype or you've built one yourself."

Sherlock drops his eyelids in a slow blink. "What makes you think that?"

"My employer has a source. And how else would you get—" She waves a hand airily at his chest, the eerie glow cast by the bacteria in the low light. Sherlock's eyes focus on the sharp points of her nails as she brings her forearm back down to rest against her knee. She clenches her hand into a fist, the sharp points of her nails incising bloodless crescents in the flesh of her palm.

"Nothing to stop you walking out of here, once— " Sherlock voice breaks into a cough. "— once I tell you." Another cough, infuriatingly involuntary. "You first."

Irene's mouth presses into a thin line. She breathes out a long breath through her nose. "All right," she says at last. "My employer has him. He's a fan of yours, you know. He was disappointed to discover your little friend was so useless after all."

"Your employer." He can't seem to lift his gaze from her hand. Hard nails, neatly shaped; indents in the soft skin. Something is prickling uncomfortably at the back of Sherlock's mind, but he can't seem to force it into focus.

"Mr Holmes," Irene snaps, and it's enough of a shock that Sherlock's eyes come back into focus. "A bargain is a bargain. Show me."

Something inside Sherlock's head clicks into place, a slow shift through the haze lurking round the edges of his thoughts. 

"I didn't bring anything out of Baskerville," he says, struggling to press himself into a more upright position, "and you came in through the window."

"You… what?"

"No schematics, no prototype. If your employer has Godfrey, he already knows everything I learned there." Everything but John's mouth pressed against his. Sherlock fists his hands in the sheets, fighting down another wave of dizziness. _Focus_. He clears his throat. "The window."

The corner of Irene's mouth curls upward in an expression of contempt. "You left it open."

"I left all the windows open." Sherlock drags his gaze up slowly to meet her eye. "You're slipping."

Irene's brows draw together in brief confusion, just for a moment, before she can school her features into careful blankness.

"It's clever," Sherlock says, leaning back against the headboard. His vision seems to be going a bit grey around the edges and the base of his throat feels oddly hollow, but the clear light of understanding is finally flooding the dark recesses of his mind, and he won't be dissuaded now. "Really. A quins masquerading as an aceptive would be enough to fool almost anyone who managed to work it out. What was it you told me once about disguises… always a self-portrait?"

Irene's shoulders jerk. "What—"

"Your arms. Goosebumps, but you're not shivering. You don't _feel_ cold."

Irene's face is pale, harsh lines of strain drawing downward from the corners of her eyes. "That's absurd."

"Your nails then. Masochism isn't your style. Rather playing to stereotype, isn't it?"

Irene holds absolutely still and says nothing.

Sherlock goes on, calling on his last reserves of energy to lend his voice a semblance of steadiness. "A quins masquerading as an aceptive; that's not so uncommon." And it isn't, not really; there have long been rumours of quinsensuals faking a different variant to avoid becoming the subject of nebulous government testing. Mycroft always vociferously denies it. 

"I have no interest in spending my life as a lab rat, Mr Holmes."

"No," Sherlock says, "but to fake being quins is another matter entirely. And quite convincing. You are to be… commended." He fights to maintain his focus, despite the darkness he can feel cresting in his chest. "You must have a good reason to do it, given the risks." He's speaking too quickly, his breath coming short. "Your employer. Someone with a use for quinsensuals."

Irene shakes her head.

"These are all children's games, Mr Holmes. You have no idea how big this gets."

"Godfrey," Sherlock says. There are bright lights dancing at the edge of his vision. "You said he's useless. Why."

"That's not part of the deal."

"I'd say the— the terms of the deal have changed, haven't they?" He tries to steady his breathing, and utterly fails. "Now that I have information you've gone to great pains to keep hidden."

"It hardly seems likely you'll have a chance to use it."

"Perhaps not. And perhaps your employer wouldn't be interested after all." Sherlock swallows hard. "Is that a chance you're willing to take?"

Irene's face goes very still. After a moment, she says, "What do you want?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Your employer. A name." Irene watches him lick his dry lips. "You know I'll find him eventually. If you tell me who he is, I won't divulge your status to him when I do."

"He casts a wide net. I'll have to run."

"And I won't stop you." The haze is rapidly encroaching on his thoughts, making his tongue thick and heavy behind his teeth. "Just a name. That's all."

Sherlock forces himself to keep his gaze on Irene as she stands. She puts one hand on her hip and regards him with what may be genuine affection.

"I like you, Mr Holmes. I hope you get through this." One corner of her mouth curls downward. "Any of it."

Sherlock struggles to keep her face in focus. He's breathing, more or less. "The name." 

"James Moriarty." Her exhale is nothing like a laugh. "He might even be glad to see you again."

Then she's gone and Sherlock is falling, down and down into darkness.

* * *

The sound of the sitting room door opening rouses him. His body feels heavy and distant, and his ears are ringing. No, not ringing; buzzing. Humming. 

Sherlock peels his eyes open. _Floor_ , he thinks dully as his vision clears, then: _kitchen_. He's propped against the refrigerator; the humming he can hear is coming from the motor. 

No memory of how he got here. He blinks down at the ungainly sprawl of his legs. His dressing gown has come open. When he lifts his hand to draw it closed, his hand knocks against an empty glass. Sherlock's eyes follow it as it rolls across the floor in a wide arc, coming to rest against the leg of the table.

Water. His mouth and tongue are painfully dry. Sherlock frowns; there's something he ought to remember about that. The humming is making it difficult to think.

Then, through the glass, distorted by its curvature: brown shoes, blue cuff. John.

Quick footsteps, a muffled thud as John drops to one knee, catching himself with a hand against the tile. John's face is too close to focus on, but Sherlock doesn't mind.

He closes his eyes.

* * *

It can't be more than a moment later that he's dragged back up to awareness by the sharp sound of snapping in his ear.

When he opens his eyes, John is still crouched in front of him. Sherlock's vision seems to have morphed into something fragile and overexposed, casting individual details in stark relief against a background that's all wide angles, too bright. He's aware, distantly, of John's hands on him: fingers in his hair, pressing against the pulse point under his jaw.

John isn't supposed to be here. Is he? Not yet, not unless— 

"Is it Monday?" Sherlock asks. Tries to, at least; the first two words are lost to the dry stiffness of his lips, the last emerging rough and unfamiliar to his own ears.

John's breathing is audibly harsh as he fishes in the pocket of his jacket for his TID. Sherlock struggles to keep his head up as John keys in a message; when he turns the screen so that Sherlock can read it he finds, not letters, but a jumbled mess of disconnected shapes.

"Sorry, I— John." He licks at his lips. "It's not working."

The blur of John's face contorts into something unfamiliar around the hard blue gleam of his eyes. Sherlock watches the fingers of John's right hand clench against the top of his thigh. Sherlock tries to raise his own hand to cover them, but he is able to lift it no more than a few inches before it falls back against the kitchen tile.

"Problem?"

John holds out his TID again. It moves slightly in time with the tremor in his fingers. Sherlock squints but the letters continue to swim across the screen, completely indecipherable. Sherlock shakes his head, once, a fractional twitch of muscle that sets the kitchen reeling around them. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door of the refrigerator. The letters continue to dance against the insides of his eyelids. They're almost familiar. Almost. What is John trying to tell him?

Oh. _Oh_.

"Wrong. You have to use _words_ if you want me to understand you," he says, peeling his eyes open. "Logograms don't mean anything."

John brings his open palm down on the floor, skin meeting hard tile with a sharp slapping sound. Sherlock peels his eyes open and takes a deep breath. There's something bright and uncomfortable worming its way into the back of Sherlock's mind.

"It's okay if you've lost your English," Sherlock says. John's TID had been broken before he went to Zurich. Coincidences are so rarely only that. "I'll help you." Sherlock's own phone is in the bedroom; John can use it, if he needs to. They'll work through this. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and says, as clearly as he can manage: "Don't need you to talk to me."

John's face looms disconcertingly large as he nudges the head of his shoulder under Sherlock's right arm, trying to urge Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock understands John's intention as surely as he knows himself absolutely unable to comply.

"No. That's. No." Even were he to get to his feet, his legs wouldn't support him. But that's fine; there's nowhere he wants to go, and John is here. What does it matter that he can't do something he doesn't want to do to begin with? 

The angle of John's head puts a scant few inches of air between Sherlock's mouth and the back of John's neck. Sherlock breathes in his scent: recycled air, stress, stale sweat; it shouldn't be comforting. His exhale shifts the short, soft hair just at the edge of John's nape, all together like grass on the ocean floor.

"You can't talk, but— I can. For both of us." 

Yes. Yes, that's perfect. Sherlock can talk for both of them. John has always liked his voice.

John hooks his arm around Sherlock's thighs, then the air leaves both their chests in one great rush as he straightens his legs. Sherlock settles horizontally across his shoulders. He shifts, adjusting his stance until his shoulders are squarely over his hips, then begins to take short, careful steps, carrying Sherlock toward the corridor leaning back to his bedroom.

Perfect, Sherlock thinks, his head lolling on his neck as his body parses its new relationship to gravity; this is _perfect_. John will walk them both back to the bedroom, and when they get there, they can both use Sherlock's voice. 

But... but John's TID is broken, and he's embarrassed. Not his fault, of course; happens all the time. It was in the paper. He shouldn't be embarrassed. They pass under the overhead light and Sherlock's gaze is caught by a gleam of light on John's jacket, just above the pocket.

"Zips," Sherlock says, voice breathless and unsupported with John's shoulder pressed against his diaphragm. "Couldn't use them." In his youth, he means, which should be obvious; few aceptive children could. Sherlock had spent a childhood envying Mycroft the dignity of the flies on his uniform trousers. But this isn't what Sherlock wants to say; it isn't what John needs to know.

 _Focus_ , Sherlock admonishes himself as they pass through the doorway. "Secondary school. Fourteen years old, and I still had to look." The remembered frustration of it is a vivid heat in his chest: somewhere to be, somewhere _important_ , pulling on his anorak only to find himself stymied by his unfeeling fingers; failing to connect, again and again. "Had to— in the mirror."

John's hand slides up the back of Sherlock's neck as they near the bed, the touch just light enough to register. Sherlock nods, bracing himself, then has to close his eyes against a wave of vertigo as John settles him onto mattress.

"I still need them sometimes," Sherlock says when John has settled the pillows behind his head and drawn back the side of Sherlock's dressing gown. John's mouth and the corners of his eyes are tight with strain as he examines the wound on Sherlock's chest.

"John." He isn't understanding, that much is both obvious and unacceptable. "Zips. I still can't… not always. I still need to see them." John leans down to scoop the pile of blankets from the floor; when he straightens up, his face is creased with puzzlement. "Pay attention," Sherlock says, but his tone is soft, blunt-edged, and John's mouth twists into something that might be amusement.

"Lestrade doesn't need to see. To use them. Zips." John's eyes flick up to meet Sherlock's as he settles the duvet over Sherlock's chest. "I still need a mirror." Sherlock takes a deep breath. " _Me_. I… sometimes."

Which is ridiculous, and absurd, and entirely irrelevant. The words he's saying are wrong, not at all the way to make John understand, but that awareness does nothing to change the thick, clumsy shape of his tongue against the backs of his teeth.

"You don't need to speak, John." Sherlock's eyes have fallen closed; he can't seem to open them. It won't matter, soon—John won't mind if he sleeps or he wouldn't have brought him to his bed—but it's important, it's _absolutely critical_ , that John understand. "You carried me here." He forces an inhale past the exhaustion cresting dark and inescapable at the base of his throat, threatening to swallow his words before he can get them out. "Your voice is— you can use mine, even if it's not… that's not what you sound like."

He feels John's fingers slip into his hair.

* * *

Sherlock is standing at the edge of a pond. 

The water before him is black dark, endlessly deep, the surface absolutely still despite the wind rushing silently past his ears. His bare toes squelch into the mud of the bank. He shouldn't be standing here, but he's rooted to the spot.

On the other side of the pond is John, dressed incongruously in Sherlock's clothes, black trousers and crisp white shirt. He, too, is barefoot.

John shouldn't be here either—the water is too deep; he can't swim—but when Sherlock opens his mouth to tell him to get back, no sound comes out. 

Deep within the ink-dark water, a tiny light appears. Sherlock drops his gaze; the light expands as he watches, growing bigger and bigger, blindingly bright, and he falls.

As he disappears below the water's surface, he's sure he hears John call his name.

When he wakes—or as near as he can get to it—he's still in his bed.

His eyes blink open slowly. John is perched in a chair beside him, his face tight, mouth twisted in concern. From the harsh chemical scent lingering in Sherlock's nose, the flannel he's using on Sherlock's chest is soaked in disinfectant. 

Ridiculous of him to look so worried; the bacteria have served their purpose. But then— no. He doesn't know that, does he? He'd have no way to know that Irene has been here.

"It's all right," Sherlock says. His voice is nearly unrecognisable, rasping over lips that refuse to shape themselves properly around the syllables. He forces the words out anyway, fighting against the darkness rushing up to meet him yet again: "She's seen it. Don't… need them anymore."

If John answers, he doesn't hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That article about technology to help the blind see? Yeah, click the link. It's totally a real thing.


	5. Absolute Magnitude

When consciousness returns, finally and fully, it's hearing that comes back first. Running water and the clang of metal against ceramic, familiar. The air feels different; closed-in, but not rank with the scent of vomit. The noise of London traffic if muffled by the glass.

Closed window. John.

Sherlock groans, shifting. His eyelids feel gummed shut, but when he tries to raise his hand to rub at them, it won't come. He rolls his head on the pillow, stubble catching audibly against cotton, and cracks his eyes open. His vision resolves itself into a narrow tube which he traces, sluggishly, from a saline bag hanging from a hook to the back of his left hand where it's strapped to the arm of the chair.

Well. That explains that.

"John," Sherlock calls, or tries to. The sound that emerges from his dry throat is pathetic and shapeless, utterly humiliating. Sherlock works his tongue in his mouth and tries again. " _John_."

There's an answering thump of John's hand against the wall, letting Sherlock know he's been heard. 

A moment later, John appears in the doorway, holding a bottle of water and his TID. He sets both on the edge of the chair, then leans in to push Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. The purposeful expression on his face does nothing to disguise his concern.

"I, ah," Sherlock says, suddenly unsure. Finally he settles on, "I wouldn't _mean_ to pull it out," with a nod toward his left hand to indicate the cannula. It's in no way what he means to say, but the tight lines of concern tugging at John's mouth soften toward a smile, and that's something.

John helps him sit up, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder to keep Sherlock from jarring his arm. When he brings the bottle up to Sherlock's lips—it has a straw; where did John find a straw?—Sherlock sucks obediently. Not water but juice, horrifyingly sweet. Bliss against the parched tissues of his throat. The sound he makes when John pulls it out of reach is absolutely not a whimper.

  
Slowly. More in a minute. How are you feeling?  


"Better than you look." Which may even be true. John's eyes are ringed with dark circles. He's put on a fresh shirt recently, but hasn't taken the time to wash, the harsh snap of stale sweat and stress underlying the flowery chemical scent of the washing powder.

  
You should have called me.  


Sherlock swallows. "I may have… misjudged," he begins.

John's mouth twists, the derision plain on his features. He holds out the bottle again. Sherlock guides the straw to his lips with his free hand. Slowly, John said _slowly_. Holding himself back is an effort, but he must manage because when John takes the bottle away again, it's empty. He twists to set it on the bedside table. Sherlock settles back against the headboard and tips his chin down. Apart from a clean, white bandage, he's barechested. He twitches the edge of the sheet up to find that John dressed him in pyjama bottoms. 

Of course he did. Christ, he could laugh at the absurdity of it, but now John is here, and— 

As quickly as it came, the surge of mirth is gone, washed out in a wave of exhaustion. "I'm just... I'm tired," he says in answer to John's questioning look, finding it true even as the words press past his lips. 

John's eyes soften, some of the concern pinching the corners of his mouth easing. He smoothes Sherlock's hair down with his fingertips—careful; he's always so careful—then hooks an arm around Sherlock's back to ease him back down onto the pillow.

The kiss he presses to the corner of Sherlock's mouth is soft and warm, humiliatingly welcome, even if— Christ, it hasn't even been a week. 

Sleep is already tugging at his eyelids, settling heavy and dark in the hollow of his throat, but John looks exhausted, drawn, and Sherlock wants, well. A great many things. At the moment, what he wants most is that, when he awakens, John will be rested too.

"John," he says, peeling one eye open. Through the dark curl of his fringe, he sees John stop and turn, already halfway to the doorway. "You should go. I don't… I don't need anything." He means sleep—of course he does—but it overtakes him before he has a chance to explain.

* * *

The buzzing of his mobile against the bedside table rouses him. Sherlock rolls, groping with his right hand until his fingers light on the hard plastic casing.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8555069810/)

There's a half-formed thought, heavy and uncomfortable, sitting at the base of Sherlock's skull. In the wake of the receding fever, it takes him an unforgivably long time to realise it's that John's name has been changed. If this is Irene's idea of a joke, it's not a very amusing one. He wonders if she'll come back so he can tell her so.

When Sherlock looks up, John is standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised in expectation.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't… I don't _know_ ," he says, brow furrowing. "I don't remember." Which isn't precisely true, of course, but is as near as he's likely to get.

After a long, watchful moment, John's mouth curves up into an easy smile.

  
From: Loyal Pet  08:18  
Sometimes I wonder what's going on in that head of yours.  


"John, you should know by now that there's a _great deal_ —" Sherlock begins, struggling up into a seated position, but he's forced to abandon the effort as a wave of dizziness greys out his vision. He clutches blindly at the arm of the chair to which his left wrist is strapped—a precaution, yes, and likely a necessary one, but just because he understands the logic of it doesn't mean it isn't bloody annoying—and John is at his side before it clears, hands steadying and sure on Sherlock's shoulders.

John's eyes are very blue, and very intent, and Sherlock doesn't know how to say _I tried to find him and I couldn't_ , so instead he just murmurs his thanks. And that is… John isn't looking at him with pity. No; he looks worried, genuinely worried, which is simply unacceptable when Sherlock _tried_ and couldn't manage to— 

Sherlock's heart is racing, in his ears and in the base of his throat. The fingers of his right hand look very white against the top of the duvet.  There are fine, pale hairs on the backs of John's fingers—paler than John's eyelashes—and a clean white bandage on Sherlock's chest, and he finds he has absolutely nothing to say. 

The silence that stretches between them is unbearable. He clears his throat. "Thank you," he says again, after far too long a pause. "Could you bring me my laptop?"

John's eyes narrow, sweeping over Sherlock's body, assessing. Sherlock holds his expression deliberately blank until John drops his chin in a quick nod and presses himself to standing. Sherlock watches him go, the careful shift of his hips beneath the hem of his jumper, then lets his eyes fall closed.

"Eye see yoo." Sherlock shapes his mouth around the letters, a deliberate flex of lips and tongue until he can very nearly taste them. "Eye. See. Yoo."

He rubs at his closed eyes with his free hand until colour flares behind his eyelids, and the pieces fall together in his head: something Irene had said, half-forgotten in fever.

Sherlock's eyes fly open. The letters on his screen— _Loyal Pet_ —become something dizzying. Only one person has ever referred to John that way. For a moment, Sherlock is sure he's going to be sick; his fingers are shaking as he thumbs his way back to his address book, and it takes two tries to input the letters correctly.

The knowledge that they're only pixels on a screen does nothing to diminish either the sense of violation or the magnitude of the relief that washes over him at the knowledge that John can once again speak to him as _John_. It's absurd, Sherlock knows it's absurd, but it eases the choking tension in his chest, just enough.

On sudden impulse, he navigates back to his text messages. And yes, there, several he'd missed while he was out:

  
From: —number withheld—  23:51  
I've so missed watching you dance. A private dance is so much more satisfying than a public one, wouldn't you agree?

 

  
From: —number withheld—  00:54  
Your landlady must know how dangerous it is to live with someone like you; all those experiments, who knows what sort of gas might leak out, and her unable to smell it. 

 

  
From: —number withheld—  00:55  
You don't tell her, do you? She'd never sleep so soundly if you did. Tsk tsk, Sherlock.  


Sherlock swallows hard. The next message is a picture: Lestrade, through the window of what must be his flat, his fingers at his collar; clearly just finished dressing for work.

  
From: —number withheld—  06:48  
Even easier. You'd think a DI would be more cautious, but he's been so dreadfully distracted since his wife left.  


Another image: John, at the front door to 221b, suitcase in hand: clearly just returning from Zurich. Christ.

  
From: —number withheld—  07:31  
I trust this is all quite clear to you now.  


 

  
From: —number withheld—  07:32  
It wouldn't be a game without rules, Sherlock. I know how hard it is for you to work without an audience. If you can't do it yourself, I'll make it easier for you.  


Sherlock is still trying to catch his breath when John returns. When he raises his gaze John's eyes are on him, wide and startling, startled. And Sherlock is— he's breathing, he thinks. More or less.

"It's fine," he says. His voice sounds strange and distant to his own ears, half-underwater. "I'm _fine_."  

The lie is bitter on his tongue, sharp with bile. His vision has gone a bit grey around the edges; he focuses on the tight bow of John's mouth as he presses a hand to Sherlock's forehead. It would be so easy to tell him.

As if on cue, Sherlock's mobile chimes with an incoming message.

  
From: —number withheld—  08:26  
C U SOON  


* * *

## Spate of Crimes Baffles Police

The body of a Rainham man (anaural, 24) was found in his home last night. The apparent cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest.

Investigators claim that the murder is the latest in a string of assaults spanning the last four weeks. Prior to last night, eight individuals were violently assaulted in their homes. In each case, the physical damage from the assault included a knife wound transecting the victim's variant marker.  
Beyond this detail, there is nothing to suggest a link between the victims: they do not share a common age, race, variant, gender, class background, and investigators have not been able to identify any other link between them.

( click for full article )

* * *

"I'm _fine_ , John, and if you don't—" 

John's jaw is a rigid line of tension echoed in the muscles and tendons of his neck. He's clearly not paying Sherlock the slightest bit of attention. Or, rather, he isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to Sherlock's _words_ ; the entirety of his focus is fixed on Sherlock's body, his left arm curled protectively around the back of Sherlock's waist, his right hand splayed wide across the plane of Sherlock's chest.

"I'm not an invalid," Sherlock snaps. He's been trying to convince John that he's well enough to be up and around for days, though even he would admit that his arguments had been perfunctory. John had been adamant, and Sherlock has just been so _tired_.

"Truly," he says, smiling down into John's eyes and softening his spine to yield his weight, just a little, to the level support of John's shoulders. Sherlock dips his chin down to brush his lips against the fine hairs at the crown of John's head. John breathes out a quick half-laugh. When he raises his eyes again, the glint of the morning sunlight on the window catches his attention.

And there, on the other side of the glass—

"Oh, bloody hell," Sherlock mutters before he can stop himself. The paint on the building over the street is bright blue, impossible to miss. _I C U._

Sherlock swallows hard and forces himself to meet John's eye. "Just... dizzy. A bit." It isn't even a lie. John's eyes darken with concern. _Keep looking at me_ , Sherlock thinks, because John could end up back in another parka with his shoes squeaking against the tile, and to avoid that, he'd do a great many things a great deal more difficult than this.

So: Sherlock keeps his eyes on John's, perfectly steady, and John's gaze doesn't waver. 

Sherlock forces a laugh up his throat, hollow and a little rough-edged. He drags his thoughts out of the dark corners of his mind, casting about for the sort of comfortable joke that can land without jarring any of the delicate balance of John's eyes on Sherlock's face.

"Believe me when I say I have exhausted every possibility for entertainment this room affords. Unless, of course, you fancy something a bit more _strenuous_." A twitch of his eyebrows and John's concern shifts, fractionally, toward relief. "I'll be _very good_." Sherlock pitches his voice low. It's such a transparent attempt that he's sure John can't fail to realise what he's up to, but where Sherlock expects suspicion, John surprises him with a silent laugh that shivers outward across his shoulders.

Soon Sherlock is being eased onto the sitting room sofa, and John hasn't looked out the window.

Sherlock lets John tuck a blanket over his legs— _really_ —and fuss a glass of water into his hand. When he settles himself onto the sofa Sherlock lets John draw his feet into his lap, an unfamiliar, easy sort of closeness with his bare toes curled against the leg of John's trousers.

He's bought himself some time.

* * *

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8555454784/)

## DAILY MAIL

### LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

**TO THE EDITOR:** _Re: New dog park to open in Soho:_ Parks can be wonderful for bringing a community together, but it's important that everyone remember the rules. I'm not far away, so I know just how dangerous that district can be. My biggest worry is that owners will become too excited about their new playground and forget their responsibilities. Letting your dogs off-leash isn't just rude to your neighbours, it creates a dangerous situation for your beloved pet. By all means, play and enjoy yourself, but be careful: if your dog bites someone and has to be put down, or runs off and gets hit by a lorry, you have no one to blame but yourself. - Mr. J. Muircheartaigh, Aphone, London.

* * *

There's a case: two ears, packed in salt—plain table salt!—sent by Royal Mail. It ought to have been fascinating, but Sherlock can hardly focus. All he remembers, after, is the way John's expression had gone hard and unreadable when Sherlock told him to see to the anoptic victim (no, not victim, _post recipient_ ; the real victim—her twin sister—was the one whose ear was in the box). The way his eyes had flicked from Sherlock's face to the woman's to Lestrade's (John's thoughts as clear as if he'd spoken them aloud: _What am I meant to do_?) and back again.

But in the end, John had simply drawn his shoulders back as though preparing to take a punch, and done as he was told.

* * *

Sherlock checks John's blog every day that week, and the next.

If John writes an entry on the case, he never posts it.

* * *

## No Solution in Continuing Crime Spree

The assaults by the criminal investigators have dubbed the "Variable Killer" continues unabated. This past week has seen four additional victims, two of assaults (male, 42, anoptic, Mayfair; and female, 71, ageusic, New Eltham) and two of murders (female, 22, aphonic, Morden; and female, 57, aceptive, Preston). 

Police brought in a suspect for questioning last week, but he was released after an apparently-related murder was committed while he was in police custody. Investigators have not yet identified another suspect, but urge all citizens to "act with caution."

( click for full article )

He's halfway through the Chaconne when it comes to him.

He's not careless enough to drop the violin, but it's a near thing. The dark window shows his own pale reflection back to him. It's not the first time he's lost hours to Bach, nor the first time he's found the melodic deception—simple at first, the embellishments building slowly; variations on a theme—had drawn a latent half-thought to the front of his mind.

There's paper in the desk. Only one of John's pens left in the cup, but Sherlock's hesitation is fractional. This is important; John won't mind.

Seven weeks. Sherlock sketches out a rough calendar and inks in the dates from memory: a dot for each assault, an X for each murder.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8551994514/)

He stares at it for what might be a long time while his brain struggles after a conclusion that keeps slipping just out of reach. There may be no connection between the victims, but the markings on the wrists are too deliberate to credit to coincidence. If it isn't random, there's a pattern; if there's a pattern, he can find it. He just has to approach it from the right angle. 

He pulls out a new scrap of paper and redraws the marks from the calendar, separating them by week.

 

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8551994530/)

The lone dot on the third line is taunting him. He has— something. _Something_. He knows it's there, in his head. His eyes begin to flick rapidly back and forth as he tests each against his mental paradigms, grouping-ungrouping-rearranging them again and again. Too few digits for an bank account, all wrong for a phone number. The grouping of four eliminates binary; perhaps a transposed hexidecimal? Too complex. There aren't enough points of data to ensure that he'd be able to work out a cipher with multiple layers. Someone has gone to great lengths to ensure his receipt of this message but not bothered to leave him a key.

Something simpler then. Something common, recognisable. What information might someone wish to hide? Or, to the point: what might someone reveal in this roundabout way? Something anyone would recognise, if they knew to look. Bank account (wrong, discounted already), passport number, security code, what would _real people_ recognise, if—

"John!" he calls, before remembering that John isn't here. He's often out, these days; Sherlock hasn't asked where he goes. Too tempting to follow.

For the best. There'd been another graffitied _I C U_ on the wall behind the newsagent's; Moriarty's web growing ever tighter.

Sherlock throws his pen down with a small shout of frustration he doesn't bother to suppress. His left hand finds its way into his hair and tugs. There's a pattern here. He just needs to see it, he— oh. _Oh_.

The certainty of it settles in his chest like a lump of ice. He redraws the pattern, replacing his Xs with dashes. When he's finished, he blinks down at his own writing on the page with a sense of numb resignation. 

Obvious. _Obvious_ ; utterly ridiculous that his hand would be shaking. 

He tightens his grip on his pen to still his fingers and inks in the letters beside the drawing:  
￼

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/8550891871/)

His tongue curls up behind his teeth to shape the unvoiced _K_. Dash-dot-dash; two murders and an assault.

"Well," he says after what might be a long time. "I was right." 

The net growing tighter, indeed. The remaining letter is a promise: first John, then Mrs Hudson, then himself. He can't help but admire the inexorable symmetry of it, even as it threatens to choke him.

Mrs Hudson, at least, is dealt with easily enough. She and her sister have been in Hamburg since— what day is it? Thursday. She'll be gone through the weekend; a simple matter of ensuring that her return journey take a bit longer than scheduled.

  
To: Mycroft  14:40  
It's imperative that Mrs Hudson remain away for at least two weeks. SH  


 

  
From: Mycroft  14:44  
Even were that my department, I can't imagine by what means you suppose I might accomplish such a thing.  


 

  
To: Mycroft  14:44  
Of course. My difficulties returning from Ljubljana last May were a simple bureaucratic mix-up, were they? SH  


 

  
To: Mycroft  14:45  
Lost passport. Security restrictions. The details are irrelevant. The outcome is crucial. SH  


 

  
From: Mycroft  14:47  
Done.  


 

  
From: Mycroft  14:47  
You're welcome.  


That's one.

The next won't be nearly so simple. John is tenacious, unshakably loyal, and an absolutely unacceptable risk.

Sherlock turns his mobile over in his hands for several long minutes, considering, but in the end there's nothing for it but to text Lestrade. 

  
To: Lestrade  14:49  
I have information. For your eyes only. SH  


The wait is interminable; Lestrade must be having trouble finding somewhere his ORS won't be overheard. 

  
From: Lestrade  15:02  
I'm alone.  


 

  
To: Lestrade  15:03  
Our old friend is back. I need your help. SH  
  


 

  
From: Lestrade  15:04  
You're going to have to be more specific.  


 

  
To: Lestrade  15:05  
The five-pips bomber. Don't pretend to be stupider than you are.  SH  


It won't be enough. Sherlock tugs at his hair with one hand. He's playing with fire; he has to be careful. But constraints go both ways, don't they? Sherlock takes a deep breath and says aloud, "You're the one who set the rules. You can't fault me for playing within them." 

There: a jolt to the ego and a challenge, all at once. Enough to justify the risk, especially when it's one he can't afford not to take.

  
To: Lestrade  15:06  
I have evidence that he's tied to the "Variable" crimes. SH  


 

  
From: Lestrade  15:07  
What evidence?  


"Idiot," Sherlock bites out. "You blind _idiot_." Lestrade's inability to see would get him killed, but Sherlock has already led him as far as he can. And with that, Sherlock is out of options: Caro-Kann while he's still reeling from the _en passant_ and he's hemmed in by his own light pieces. Neat. 

He responds in the only way left to him, even as he recognises the futility of it, because to do otherwise would yield even less.

  
To: Lestrade  15:10  
Only threats. SH  


 

  
From: Lestrade  15:12  
That's not evidence, Sherlock. Even your word—ESPECIALLY your word—isn't enough on its own. I can put feelers out, but until you can bring me something solid, my hands are tied.  


 

  
From: Lestrade  15:14  
The best thing you can do is keep your guard up and keep me informed.  


 

  
From: Lestrade  15:20  
Sherlock.  


 

Sherlock tosses his phone aside with a sharp exhale, then closes his eyes and presses his fingertips together beneath his chin.

He'd been deluding himself. It's never been a question of whether Moriarty would leave the business between them unfinished, but when he'd try to force Sherlock's hand and end the game.

And this is how it ends: Sherlock's name; his home; the destruction of those he cares about, mere collateral damage. 

This is how it ends. 

He breathes deep, forcing himself to confront the uncertainty with each exhale. It settles in his chest, an uncomfortable pressure that grows until it can no longer be contained by the cage of his ribs; until all he can do is let it crack him open. The jagged upheaval that follows scours his chest from the inside out. It shouldn't hurt, he thinks—not him—but it does.

When it's over, what's left is neither dread, nor fear, but pure, clarifying rage.

Jim Moriarty is playing a game with Sherlock's life, but Sherlock may not be entirely out of moves just yet.

He has a week to regain control of the board.

* * *

  


  
From: Lestrade  20:58  
If you're through sulking, I need you. Croydon.

 

  
From: Lestrade   21:02  
Don't pretend you aren't interested. I've already dispatched the car.  


 

  
To: Lestrade  21:02  
Call it back. We'll get a cab. SH  


* * *

The night ends with a chase down a back lane and Sherlock being held at gunpoint—dull—except that they've been here before, haven't they? 

For a moment Sherlock can see neither the gun pointed at him nor the suspect wielding it; his vision is full of the memory of John on the rooftop, propped awkwardly while his blood darkened his trousers, and the solid bulk of the brick wall at Sherlock's back becomes just another part of the trap that's been closing around him for months. Not like this, he _can't_ , he—

—but then John appears, 170 centimetres of tension coiled into solid muscle propelling him forward to knock the suspect to the ground with enough force to drive the air audibly from his chest. John follows him down, all hard, efficient movement, leaning his bodyweight into the suspect's back to pin him against the gritty pavement. The ensuing scuffle is over as soon as it begins, John's broad hands locking the suspect's arms in an efficient bind. 

Sherlock leans into the wall, dragging lungful after lungful of air down his throat and trying to will his racing pulse to steadiness in his chest. 

Flashing lights herald the arrival the police. "Took you long enough," Sherlock mutters as the officers swarm down the lane. With the suspect under control, John is free to push himself upright. Sherlock turns to face the plainclothes officer beside him, turning his head as far as he can without losing sight of John.

They'd passed another wall of graffiti on the way here. Absurd, that something as innocuous as paint on a wall could set Sherlock's heart to clawing at his chest. He's opened his mouth a hundred times, meaning to tell John to run, even as he knows doing so would bring about precisely the disaster he hopes to avoid.

(Seven letters; he has another week; he'll think of something. He has to.)

The officer—ageusic; one child, two cats; in her first week on the graveyard shift, going by the new watchband and the unwashed state of her hair—standing at Sherlock's side puts out a hand. "Gregson." When Sherlock doesn't shake it, she clears her throat and slides a notebook from the pocket of her jacket. "My DI said I should talk to you."

"Did he?" At the edge of Sherlock's vision, John bends forward at the waist to brush the dirt from the knees of his trousers. "Doesn't sound like him."

"He said you'd know—"

Sally Donovan (at least six hours into her shift; here voluntarily; smiling) appears at John's side. 

"He's _wrong_ ," Sherlock snaps, waving his hand in a gesture that falls short of the airiness he intends. "We were just out for a stroll. Wrong place, wrong time." And if Gregson buys that she's an even bigger idiot than he thought, but Sherlock can't seem to bring himself to care.

On the other side of the lane Sally is speaking to John: "Well done." Even in the dim light and from the corner of his eye, Sherlock can't miss John's grin. "He's lucky you were here." She cocks her head in Sherlock's direction. "Really, you're the best thing for him, you know that?" 

Sherlock presses his tongue against the backs of his teeth. Gregson has just put a hand on his sleeve and a dozen metres away the suspect is being questioned about the missing cyclist, but the entirety of Sherlock's not-inconsiderable attention is focused on Sally and John, the flashing lights from the police cars making their outsized silhouettes dance across the brick behind them. 

Sally pushes her hair back with one hand. "I've been meaning to ask you for weeks. What was all that about radiation poisoning?" A pause—Sherlock doesn't, absolutely does not look at John's face, though his mind eye conjures John's questioning expression with the clarity of long familiarity—until she says, "Something on his blog. You were abroad, I think, but I was sure you _must_ know, because _he_ —"

Sherlock is moving before the intent is fully formed, striding across the pavement with Gregson close behind him, trailing small, indignant sounds at his inattention. The pavement wavers dangerously beneath Sherlock's feet—  

_don't look, don't look, don't look_

—but his voice, when it emerges, sounds steady and sure. "John. Home."

Sherlock continues toward the main road without breaking stride. A moment later, he hears John's footsteps fall into place behind him.

Across the street, another graffitied wall. Sherlock doesn't look; it hardly matters if the by-now-familiar _I C U_ emblem is visible there or not. The fact of the matter is that it could be; if it's not there now, it might easily appear before the morning.

(The week is nearly up. They're running out of time.

 _It will work_ , whispers the ruthlessly logical part of his brain. _This will work._ )

The most effective course of action there all along; obvious. Obvious; effective; the rest of it doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter. The hollow, clawing ache in his chest is mere sentiment, nothing more.

Regardless: out of his hands now. Now, they will go home. Home, then John will leave (focus; _focus_ ), and Sherlock will be free to finish this. And after that— well. After that, if he's right, Sherlock will see about picking up any pieces that remain. (If he isn't, none of it will matter.)

"Taxi!" Sherlock calls, and puts out his arm without once meeting John's eye.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock slips out of his coat and stretches himself out along the sofa without even bothering to remove his shoes. He closes his eyes.

He's made a study of pain; the sort of objective, academic study one can only undertake of a subject with which one has absolutely no connection. The anticipation of future discomfort is often worse than the sensation itself. A body anticipating pain will tense, heightening not only the sensation but in fact worsening it as the body resists, fails to yield to an unavoidable stimulus. 

Which makes this an object lesson in an observed phenomenon. It goes some way, at least, toward explaining the churning discomfort in his stomach, the sharp squeeze of his chest, while doing nothing at all to dispel it. Having never experienced it before, he takes no pleasure in doing so now.

Unavoidable stimulus, indeed.

He waits.

When John sets his laptop down—hard; harder than necessary—and shoves himself to standing, Sherlock keeps his eyes shut. He folds his hands across his chest, palms to sternum. The rapid hammering of his heart, loud in his ears, remains completely intangible through the barrier of his ribcage.

Sherlock's mobile chimes, once. He knows it's John; knows he should read it. He leaves it be. 

Sherlock is sure he can feel the sharp, searing heat of John's gaze on his skin. He doesn't— no. To actually see it would be worse. The inevitability of this moment is a lead weight on Sherlock's chest, preventing him from drawing in a proper breath. Necessary, he tells himself; this is necessary.

It's hateful.

The sound of John's fingers on the keyboard resumes, and Sherlock breathes out, quick, a fractional release of physical tension that does nothing to ease the anxiety clawing at his throat.

Later, from the kitchen: the slam of a cupboard door, the tap turning on.

Of course John is upset, which makes the tea utterly expected. Sherlock's mind's eye has no trouble conjuring the hard, furious set of John's mouth. The imagining of it is as bad as seeing it, he tells himself, but knows the thought for the lie it is when his mobile chimes again and his eyes stay firmly closed.

Another chime. Sherlock slides the phone out of his pocket, still not looking, his fingers clumsy and infuriating as he toggles it to silent mode. He drops it to the floor beside the sofa and brings his hand back to his chest. The phone buzzes again and again against the carpet, a background irritation that mixes with the thrum of his thoughts.

Sherlock's jolt when John drops it onto his chest has nothing to do with surprise. The heavy drop of John's body into the cushions of his armchair is an accusation in its own right.

It's for the best, Sherlock tells himself, but even when he finally peels his eyes open he can't bring himself to look at anything but the screen.

  
From: John Watson   21:08  
Checked your website. Because of what Donovan said. Radiation poisoning? What aren't you telling me?  


 

  
From: John Watson   21:49  
Radiation doesn't glow. I'm not an idiot.  


 

  
From: John Watson   21:52  
You set it up, didn't you. Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Was it all some sort of guilt trip? Trying to punish me for leaving?  


"I didn't." Sherlock swallows and lifts his gaze, finally, only to find that John isn't looking at him at all. His face is turned toward the window. The muscles in his temple jump as he works his jaw. "John, this wasn't— it was a setup, but not—" _It wasn't about you,_ he wants to say, but the words die on his lips. Wasn't it? Trying to flush out Irene in an effort to find Godfrey Emsworth, for no other reason than that Sherlock knew John wanted him found?

John's refusal to look at him is terrible. The wave of relief that follows is worse.

After a moment, Sherlock swallows and returns his attention to his phone.

  
From: John Watson   22:52  
ICU? What, were you telling me where to find you if this all went pear-shaped?  


 

  
From: John Watson   22:53  
You have no idea how close you came to actually killing yourself, do you.  


"I— yes," Sherlock says, lifting his eyes again, and that at least has John's attention. The flicker of surprise in his eyes is at odds with the dark, unabating fury visible on his face. Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I know how close I came." His tone is more apologetic than he means it to be; counterproductive. Wrong. Another deep breath, then he swings himself upright until he can plant his feet on the carpet. He can't do this lying down. John's tongue darts out, a brief gleam of wetness against his lower lip. God. The next words tumble over Sherlock's teeth before he can stop them. "It was the only logical course of action, if we were ever going to find your friend Emsworth."

John's mouth twists. His fingers on the keyboard of his TID are quick, but Sherlock's are faster; he turns his phone face-down on the sofa cushion. He needs to get this out before he loses his nerve.

"Telling me not to involve myself was stupid," he says, too quickly. "You can't have thought I'd stand by just because you said—" 

The expression on John's face forces Sherlock's jaw shut around the next word. It's flushed dark, absolute fury twisting his features into near-unrecognisability. He surges forward, lightning-quick, and Sherlock can't help the way he shrinks back; John isn't like this, John _never_ — but where Sherlock had expected hands on his skin there are just John's fingers clenched around Sherlock's mobile, inches from his face. It's shaking; John's hand is shaking, his nails pressed white by the force of his grip.

The screen lights up with John's incoming message.

  
From: John Watson   22:57  
you cant just ignore me whenever  
listen to me y  


Half-finished; did John even mean to send it? Something inside Sherlock's chest contracts, contracts, locks tight. His hand might as well belong to someone else; he watches his own fingers grip his mobile, take it from John's grasp. He meets John's eye—hard, sharp and gleaming with pain; _breathe_ , he tells himself—and doesn't allow himself to flinch.

Slowly, deliberately, without releasing John's gaze, Sherlock sets his mobile face-down on the sofa.

For what might be a very long time, neither of them breathe. Then John draws himself up, very straight, his hand clenching into a tight fist at his hip. The effort with which he composes himself is painful in its own way: the tight cording of the tendons in his throat, the flex of his jaw, the heaving of his chest as he drags air down his throat, once; twice.

Sherlock knows what he needs to do. Knows, yet it still takes him several slow, unsteady breaths to shape his mouth around the words. His voice doesn't sound like his own; he's past knowing whether he manages the contempt he aims for in his tone. "You can't expect me not to ignore you when you're being unreasonable."

John's skin darkens, all in a rush, from his hairline all the way down his throat. His lips part around a shuddering exhale that leaves him visibly deflated. Sherlock's instinctive urge to reach out to him is ridiculous, absurd, counter to the entire point. 

Sherlock's heart is pounding so hard that the edges of his vision flare with each beat, light-dark, light-dark.

He keeps his hands where they are.

The shift in John's demeanour is deliberate, systematic, utterly horrible. His lips compress into a thin line; he jerks his chin down in a tight nod and draws his shoulders square in movement so small as to be imperceptible to anyone else.

"John," Sherlock says, without meaning to.

The only response is a tightening at the corners of John's eyes. Then John turns on his heel and moves away. A dozen quick strides brings him to the door of the sitting room.

Good, Sherlock thinks. He's right, he knows he's right. The knowledge of it is a shuddery, hollow ache in his chest.

Sherlock clenches his jaw against the urge to cry out, half-hoping John hesitates, knowing it's best if he doesn't; he won't be able to keep the words bottled up in his throat for long and John needs to leave, _now_ , he—

The deadbolt retracting is even louder than the harsh rasp of John's breath.

John pulls the door open with no hesitation at all, but _then_ — he takes a step back, and then another, and it takes Sherlock several long, unforgivable seconds to realise that all of his efforts have come too late.

No, Sherlock thinks wildly; too early. Not yet.

"My, my." The words take on an odd, lilting tone, absurd where they shouldn't even be possible. When Moriarty touches the fingertips of his left hand to his lips, his sleeve slips down just enough to reveal the red ink on his wrist. He follows the line of Sherlock's gaze and grins, all teeth. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."


	6. Blueshift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Downloadable versions (now complete!): [epub](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ocvq7xbcia6lxte/ComplementaryComplete.epub) or [pdf](https://www.dropbox.com/s/doxhfwy3rfspqy2/ComplementaryComplete.pdf). The error message I got as I was exporting makes me worried that the ePub is unhappy about the number of images in there, so if you run into any trouble please let me know.

John isn't moving. 

From the sea of half-formed thoughts buzzing frantically in Sherlock's head, that's the one that coalesces first: John isn't moving.

Jim Moriarty isn't moving, either. He's standing to the side of the doorway, completely motionless, his hands resting casually in his trouser pockets. 

Too late, Sherlock thinks; I was too late, and now he's here, and _John_ — 

John isn't looking at him. Isn't looking, in fact, at either of them. His eyes are fixed on something on the other side of the open doorway. 

Sherlock's feet, on the carpet, feel very far away.

"John."

It seems to break the spell holding them all frozen, which is something. John takes a step back, then another. He still isn't turning around.

Moriarty's mouth stretches into a grotesque parody of a grin. He pushes himself away from the wall and takes a step forward. It would be easy, so easy, to shove him from the room, slam the door shut behind him. The lock would be enough, at least for a bit. Long enough for Sherlock to think of a plan. He's early, Sherlock's brain insists; it isn't fair, he should have had more _time_ , he— 

Sherlock can see it in his mind's eye: his own pale fingers splayed wide against the neat, navy fabric of Moriarty's suit jacket. If Sherlock pushed hard enough, he would stumble; might even fall backward down the stairs. He can _see it_. 

The tense, unfamiliar torque of John's spine holds him back.

When Godfrey Emsworth steps through the door, Sherlock hardly has enough space in his head for surprise. The gun in his hand is just as expected. That it's pointed at John fills Sherlock with a fatalistic dread.

"Hope you don't mind me dropping by a bit early," Moriarty says, the lightness of his voice an incongruous counterpoint to the heaviness of the pulse in Sherlock's throat. He tugs one shoulder upward in an off-kilter shrug. "But you must have worked it out by now."

The sound of Moriarty's voice is like fire at the base of Sherlock's spine. The red ink on his wrist is visible below the line of his left cuff. This is, on every level, wrong.

"Yes," Sherlock says, not meaning to. For the first time since he opened the door to find a gun pointed at him, John tears his eyes away. His chin jerks up, twists just enough to shoot a glance, dark and unreadable, in Sherlock's direction.

"Yes," Sherlock says again, trying to force his voice to a steadiness he doesn't feel. Fear and fury are warring in his chest; warring, when he needs the focus of his calm. What he says next is utterly absurd, but he can't seem to stop himself. "You aren't supposed to be here yet. You were— next week."

Moriarty raises a hand, palm forward. "What can I say? I got bored." He flicks his first two fingers down toward his palm. Godfrey steps forward and raises the pistol until the muzzle is mere inches from the centre of John's forehead. 

Sherlock doesn't miss the flicker in John's eyes; he needs no words to understand John's intent. He slides his gaze down to the base of John's throat. 

The telltale shift is so small as to be imperceptible to anyone less intimately familiar with the rhythms of John's body. John shoves his palm up hard to break the line of Godfrey's aim and drops low, an efficient, practised movement that Sherlock catches from the corner of his eye as he launches himself forward. From the sofa to the door is too great a distance for his own attack to come as a surprise, but between Moriarty's aversion to getting his hands dirty and Sherlock's superior reach, he— 

The sensation that jolts through his body is like nothing Sherlock has ever felt before, an instant, crushing pressure that steals the air from his lungs and tightens his limbs in hard convulsions, utterly disorientating. It isn't until the room tilts dizzyingly around him that he realises he's falling.

* * *

First awareness is hazy, the throb of his pulse in his neck. He's aware, dimly, of tremors in the nebulous, half-liquid shapes of his own limbs. They're altogether too heavy and far away for him to move them himself.

It takes him an inexcusably long time to realise that those breathless, rough-edged groans are coming from his own throat.

"You're going to want to stay where you are."

It's all he can do to parse out the words during the long, infuriating seconds during which he utterly fails to force his eyelids open. His head is lolling forward on his neck; he can't seem to raise it. Apart from the hard, involuntary jerks of his muscles, his body refuses to move, his muscles entirely outside his conscious control. It's as though the unfeeling barrier of his skin has sunk all the way down to his bones, leaving him in utter isolation from his own flesh.

Another spasm seizes its way along the narrow column of his arm. Through a sudden wave of vertigo, dizzying even in the darkness behind his eyelids, he hears the muffled thud of his hand falling into his own lap. 

"Tsk tsk, Sherlock. I was led to believe you were good at following orders. I'm starting to doubt it." A pause, a rustle of cloth, another groan Sherlock fails to trap behind his teeth. "Tell you what. Because I'm feeling generous, I'll let you have that one as a freebie, but don't kid yourself. It's the only one you're going to get."

The half-formed question in Sherlock's throat dies before it reaches his lips. 

The high note in Jim Moriarty's laugh might even be genuine mirth. "I don't know, Doctor Watson," he says, voice twisted into a mockery of concern, "I don't think he understands. Why don't you explain it to him?"

John. Where is John?

The light, when he peels his eyelids open, is searingly bright. He can't seem to force his eyes to focus. 

Another spasm leaves him gasping and staring abruptly up at the ceiling.

"It's going to be a bit before you're feeling quite yourself. You might as well just relax. I won't even punish you for breaking the rules this time. You _did_ just wake up."

"What—" His head falls forward, his vision blurring into a bright, dizzying rush of light-wallpaper-carpet until he's staring down at his own hand in his lap. As he watches, his fingers twitch, curl, relax. When he tries to replicate the motion, they refuse to obey.

Sherlock registers, belatedly, the harsh, stale scent of ozone, and understanding flares inside the damp cotton-wool packing the inside of his skull. Obvious, blindingly obvious, and he didn't even see it coming.

"Stun gun." The words are thick, half-slurred. He didn't mean to speak them aloud.

Moriarty laughs. "Oh yes, very well done. The great detective at work. Here," he says, his tone light and incongruously conversational, "let me help you with that."

When Moriarty's slim fingers encircle Sherlock's wrist, Sherlock can't organise enough strength into his arm to pull away. Moriarty lifts Sherlock's forearm back onto the armrest of his chair—his own armchair; bloody hell—then administers two quick pats to the back of Sherlock's hand.

"There you go. Now leave them there. The good doctor was quite clear on that particular point, I see."

" _John._ " The name tumbles over his unresponsive lips, half-slurred. Sherlock can feel his eyelids growing heavy, unconsciousness cresting dangerously in his chest.

Moriarty heaves an exaggerated sigh. "He's right here, Sherlock." His voice softens, taking on a note of exasperated affection. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock gets a glimpse of the hair at the nape of his neck as he turns his head. "Is he always this oblivious? No wonder you were arguing."

Fingers in his hair, the room tilting as his head is drawn up until he's looking straight ahead. After the initial ill-focused rush the walls settle into place around him, which helps, a bit. John is there, kneeling on the floor a few feet in front of Sherlock's knees. His arms are drawn backward at a severe angle that contorts his spine, curling his shoulders forward. Sherlock squints, trying to focus his eyes: the bow of John's neck, the top of his head, his forehead. Behind him, Godfrey Emsworth, aiming his pistol at the back of John's head.

Blood. There's blood on John's face. Sherlock can't identify the source. Christ, if it's his eye, or—

Moriarty laughs. "Now you're paying attention." The left side of Sherlock's body convulses, and Moriarty hisses in a breath. " _Careful_. The good doctor here laid the rules out very clearly."

John's shoulders jerk, but he doesn't raise his head.

"What— what rules," Sherlock manages. His lips still feel thick and unresponsive, but that doesn't even begin to explain the hoarse rasp of his voice. 

Moriarty releases his grip on Sherlock's hair. With his neck abruptly unsupported, Sherlock manages, by some miracle, to keep his head up. It's something.

Moriarty steps around the side of the chair and fully into Sherlock's field of vision. He's holding John's TID in his hand. His fingers are all wrong against the plastic casing, neither tanned nor blunt. Sherlock's vision swims until he's sure it's his own fingers he sees, long and pale, on Moriarty's hand. Wrong, this is— 

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but is obliged to shut it again to swallow down the surge of bile rising in his throat.

"Let me see," Moriarty says, swiping his thumb casually over the screen, then reads: "Except where it says otherwise, keep your hands on the armrests." He raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's gaze, his head at an angle that makes Sherlock unsure, suddenly, of his own relationship with gravity. "Tell me you understand."

Sherlock swallows hard. He has to force his voice up through the tight constriction of his throat, the heavy, uneven thud of his pulse threatening to choke off the words. "John, I—"

Moriarty lunges forward, twining his fingers in John's hair and wrenching his head up. John fights his grip, twisting awkwardly against the obvious strain on his shoulders—at this angle, Sherlock can see that John's forearms have been bound to the arms of the kitchen chair behind him, forcing his upper spine into flexion; with his calves and ankles bound to its legs, he's trapped on his knees—and drags his gaze up to meet Sherlock's.

There's blood on John's face, gleaming wetly just below his hairline, smeared over one cheek, half-obscuring his vision in one eye. It seems, at this angle, to originate from a laceration running from his eyebrow to his temple. John's face is ashen, incised with harsh lines of strain.

Moriarty makes a high, pained noise, and waves the hand holding John's TID in the direction of Godfrey, standing behind the chair and still pointing the pistol steadily at the back of John's head. 

"Now. Unless you fancy scrubbing the good doctor's brains—such as they are—off your deafening wallpaper, you are going to stay precisely where you are and _follow instructions_. So. Tell me you understand."

A scant few feet away, John closes his eyes, which is the only thing that lets Sherlock give voice to the words. "I understand."

"Very good." Moriarty releases his grip on John's hair. John slumps forward as far as he can, curling his upper back. With his pulse hammering in his ears, Sherlock watches Moriarty's fingers thread through the short, soft hair at the nape of John's neck. Sherlock's hands have moved the same way, on the same few inches of skin; Sherlock's tongue knows its taste.

The hammering beat of Sherlock's heart is visible in the flaring edges of his vision. He's aware of his chest heaving; why doesn't he seem to be getting any air?

"I do hope you're ready to talk to me. If not, I suppose Johnny boy and I will just have to entertain ourselves." Moriarty's lips twist, stretch into a leer, and he raises the hand holding John's TID. "Though I suspect we'd have fun."

Sherlock calms himself with an effort that's equal parts rigidly controlled breath and a silent vow to shove his hand down Moriarty's throat and tear it out from he inside at the first glimmer of opportunity.

He forces his face into the nearest to boredom he can manage before he trusts himself to speak. "I'd have talked to you without all this."

Moriarty shakes his head. "No," he says in a voice heavy with what might be genuine regret. "No, you really wouldn't. I was beginning to suspect I was wrong about you, you know. That you might never work it out at all."

Sherlock's thigh twitches. He ignores it, focusing instead on trying to grip his fingers into the armrests. "Never… never work what out?" His right hand curls, weakly, before the strength flows out of the muscles leaving them loose and liquid and useless. "The code? My name?"

Moriarty throws his head back with a groan. "That wasn't even a proper _puzzle_ ," he says, voice sliding up into a whine. "That was just a— and you fell for it, just like all the rest of them. I'd have thought _you_ , of all people, would understand."

John shifts against the carpet, his knees obviously feeling the strain of his position. Were Sherlock's limbs responding properly to his commands, he'd have reached out to him before remembering the risk.

"Understand what?"

"Honestly, Sherlock, it's just a bit of ink."

Sherlock's eyes are full of gun. "You were tired of stealing voices and wanted _him_ —" Sherlock nods in Godfrey's direction, "— because you were hoping the treatment that gave him his voice would do the same for you. It… didn't." Sherlock's voice breaks regrettably on the last word, and John tips his head up, just enough that Sherlock can see the defiant gleam of one eye. 

Sherlock forces his own eyes back to Moriarty's face to find it contorted in a grimace of ostentatious disappointment.

Oh. _Oh_. Unforgivably slow; how could he not have seen?

"Bit of an odd choice, isn't it? A quins disguising himself as an aphone?"

The corners of Moriarty's mouth twitch into an expression that's nothing like a smile. "Not fair of me to be surprised you fell for it, I know. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever." 

John's head falls forward on his neck with a ragged exhale. The only thing keeping Sherlock in the chair is the knowledge that to do otherwise would be an unacceptable risk.

"I never quit playing," Sherlock says, trying to inject his voice with a steadiness he doesn't feel. "So why send Irene Adler after him, if not because you wanted—"

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut as Moriarty drops into a crouch, using his body to fill the space between the end of Sherlock's knees and John's chest. Sherlock could kick out, have him pinned to the ground in a moment, if not for the tremors still wracking his muscles and the unwavering grip on the pistol still aimed at the nape of John's neck.

"You seem to like _your_ live-in aggie. Thought I'd try one for myself." He shrugs. "Though I have to say, I can't see the appeal. This one can't speak without his fix, and he hasn't had one of those for weeks. As for yours… well. He can't at all, can he? Makes him altogether too bitter to be worth your time."

Sherlock shakes his head. Moriarty's voice has taken on a strange, dark tone beneath the words."Bitter?"

"Are you even _paying attention?_ " Moriarty snaps. His forehead creases. "No," he says, his voice softening as though in genuine consideration. "No, you're not. You're _distracted_." He holds up John's TID again, thumbs the screen on. John jerks forward; even at this angle, Sherlock can see the muscles jump in his temple as he flexes his jaw.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty says, swiping his thumb against the screen. "You really don't see how worthless they are, do you."

Sherlock's tongue catches regrettably on his teeth. "How—"

"Worthless. _Really_ , I must insist on having your full attention." He reaches out with one hand and tugs hard at John's hair, wrenching his head and dragging his head up until he and Sherlock are looking at each other again. John's eyes are very wide, and very blue. The squint of his right eye—and attempt to keep vision clear of the blood still seeping from the wound over his eyebrow; an attempt that, given the rapid pace at which John is blinking, is plainly failing—gives his face a skewed, disjointed appearance that makes Sherlock's chest feel tight.

Moriarty holds John's TID up with his other hand and says to Sherlock, "Read it."

Sherlock eyes flick to the screen. God, no. He shakes his head, once. He _can't_.

"You will read it," Moriarty says, his voice dropping in pitch, "because in a minute, your pet here is going to need to remember just how very much he enjoys making sure you're happy." A pause. "Or because you'd prefer he keep his brains inside his skull. Whichever you'd find most persuasive. I really don't mind, myself." 

John's face is flushed dark, his eyes shining. He isn't quite meeting Sherlock's eye; instead, his gaze has settled somewhere just overhead, on Sherlock's forehead.

With a sense of relief that he knows is misplaced even as it washes over him, Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed. He recites the words on the screen from memory: "I want you to come and kneel in front of me."

"Oh, and see, he's done it already." There's a rustle of cloth, and a hiss of breath from John. Sherlock's pulse is hammering so hard it shakes him all the way down to his spine. "Tell him what a good boy he is, Sherlock. Thank him."

Sherlock swallows hard. He can't open his eyes. He just… he can't. "Thank you."

The dark behind his eyelids changes absolutely nothing at all.

"I can see why you keep him around," Moriarty says. Sherlock forces himself to look. He's still thumbing through the entries in John's TID. Sherlock suspects he's still reading the series from that night, a suspicion which is confirmed a moment later when Moriarty says, "Taking orders from an aggie is a bit distasteful, of course, but… my, my. He's a creative one, at least. No wonder you find him to be such a distraction."

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "He's not a distraction."

Moriarty's mouth twists. "'Get a cushion for your knees. You're going to be there for a while,'" he reads out. "Seems a bit distracting to me. Good thing I'm not so— oh, and you let him tease you. _Sherlock_." The note of mockery in Moriarty's tone might be affectionate if it weren't so sharp. "How unbearably sweet."

"It was a game." Sherlock is past telling whether he succeeds at holding his voice steady. "Just a game, nothing more."

"No, Sherlock." Moriarty's eyes are dark, liquid, gleaming with the reflected light from the screen. "What you and I have is a game. What you have with this, this, is— it's a _perversion_."

The retort on the tip of Sherlock's tongue is not the way to win this, so he swallows it down. It does nothing to change the fact that John is kneeling on the carpet in front of him, humiliated and in pain. It's easier, somehow, to keep his eyes on Moriarty.

"And you're in a position to offer something better."

"Oh, much better. You're going to love it, Sherlock, you really will." Moriarty's mouth stretches into a wide smile, all teeth. "But I know how it can be with these distractions. You might not think I would, but… I've done my share of slumming, you know. That's the thing with aphones; most of them stay out of your way, but every now and then you get a feisty one. You let one of those in, they get under your skin, in your head. We don't need that, those… _things_ in our brains, making us think like them."

"Our…."

"Don't play stupid, Sherlock. You're better than that. Better than _him_." He drops John's TID to the floor. "Worthless. And you know what you do with something worthless, Sherlock? You _get rid of it_."

He slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out— 

Oh, God.

Sherlock's mind catalogues the details of its own volition: the sharp glint of the blade in the overhead light, the blunt, utilitarian shape of the handle. This is a knife selected for efficient brutality, and nothing more.

John's whole body jerks backward, the tension in his face belying any attempt he might be making to control his reaction. Sherlock starts forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sound of Godfrey cocking the hammer on his Sig Sauer, an utterly gratuitous gesture that freezes Sherlock's blood in his veins.

"Go on then, Johnny boy," Moriarty says, extending the hand holding the knife until the blade is perpendicular to the ground, a scant few inches from John's mouth. His eyes are eager, his face contorted in a grotesque parody of desire. "Use your tongue. Taste me."

John's eyes slide to meet Sherlock's. Beneath the blood, his skin is deathly pale, the veins standing out in his temples. At such a close distance, Sherlock can see the rapid flutter of the pulse in John's throat, but the corners of his mouth are tight with determination.

Unbidden, Sherlock's mind conjures the memory of the night after they'd been in Baskerville, the repeating nightmare of finding John's body on the ground, his face bloodied around slack lips, his mouth empty. He'd dreamt it so often he'd begun to recognise the patterns by which the blood pooled along the ground (carpet, tile), but never, not once, had he dreamt himself present to see it happen.

In the end, John doesn't need Sherlock's urging. His lips part to reveal the faint gleam of his tongue between the twin barriers of his teeth. He leans forward, just a bit—reaching against his bonds, his fists clenched hard against the arms of the chair behind him, hands dark with trapped blood—and extends his tongue to touch just the tip of it to the metal. A brief touch, there and gone, that leaves Sherlock's throat locked tight around his breath.

Moriarty clicks his own tongue behind his teeth. "Show some enthusiasm," he says. "Sherlock will never believe you're enjoying yourself if that's the best you can do. Insatiable, isn't he?"

"Don't—" Sherlock begins, but whatever he might have meant to say after that dies on his lips. John squeezes his eyes shut, briefly, then opens them again—the blade is sharp; too dangerous not to watch what he's doing—and works his tongue in his mouth, plainly trying to gather some moisture. 

When he extends his tongue again, Sherlock can barely close his teeth against the cry that rises, sharp and bitter, in his throat. John swipes it flat against the surface of the blade, again and again, a repetitive motion that draws Sherlock's vision inward, tunnelling through a deepening darkness.

When Moriarty lowers the knife at last, John sits back, breathing fast through parted lips. His gaze flick to a point just above Sherlock's eyes, then drops to the carpet.

If Sherlock moved, he could knock the knife away in time. The bullet that would end John's life wouldn't be— it wouldn't be _this_. Godfrey was a soldier; it would be clean, at least. John's death wouldn't have to come with him gagging on his own blood, cold and shaking, it—

"I know you think you've found a good use for it," Moriarty says, "but it's an unnecessary appendage. So is he. Let me cut you loose."

Sherlock lets his eyes fall closed. He'd beg, if he thought it would work.

"He could live a long time without it, you know," Moriarty goes on, his tone very nearly conciliatory. "It'll probably kill him, but if it doesn't, well. It won't make that much difference. He might even be able to eat solid food again, eventually. Drool a bit, but—"

Sherlock can't stand to hear anymore. He can't look at John. He can't. His heart isn't so much beating as shaking in his chest; when he forces his eyes open looking at Moriarty is, unbelievably, the least impossible option. "What is it, precisely, that you want?"

"Right now? I want Doctor Watson to put out his tongue."

The shudder that runs through John's body shakes the chair behind him. 

"John, look at me. _Look at me_. You don't have to do this."

The sound Moriarty makes is nothing like a laugh. "Yes, Johnny boy. Look at him."

Sherlock tries to arrange his features into an expression of calm reassurance, but when John's eyes slide up—slowly, every inch speaking eloquently of the effort required—what Sherlock sees is enough wipe any such intentions from his mind.

Sherlock has made a study of pain. Of John's, specifically; its many varieties and manifestations, its sources, the extent to which it can and cannot be borne. A few moments ago, Sherlock would have sworn that he'd witnessed every possible permutation of _John in pain_.

He has no way to classify the expression on John's face now.

Even when Sherlock calls his name, John won't meet his eye. Instead, he opens his mouth, and puts out his tongue. 

"John. _John_. Stop. What are you doing?"

John doesn't close his eyes when Moriarty shouts at Sherlock to _sit back down_ , nor when Godfrey takes a step close to press the barrel of the pistol against the back of his neck. He doesn't close them when Moriarty reaches out to grasp his tongue between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, pressing hard to flatten the muscle. His gaze remains steady when Moriarty sets the knife aside and takes two metal sticks, about four inches long and honed to a wicked point at each end, out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

No. John's eyes remain open until the first skewer pierces the soft muscle of his tongue.

When Moriarty leans back, there are two thin silver bars piercing Johns' tongue, crossing through the soft muscle at an angle to form an X shape that will hold it extended, pinioned and vulnerable. As Sherlock watches, John's tongue flexes, curls, and utterly fails to retract into the safety of his mouth.

Moriarty makes a small hum of approval, low in his throat, and picks up the knife again. He hefts the handle in one hand, then presses the flat of the blade to John's cheek, turning his head to flash a bright, gleeful grin at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"All right then, Sherlock. Let's talk options."

The desperate, squirming motions of John's tongue are nauseating but he's at least breathing, more or less, the rapid rise-fall of his chest painfully uneven but continuous. Sherlock's own chest is heavy and tight with a lack of air; surely that explains why the room around him is so abruptly unsteady.

"John, look at me," Sherlock says. "Look at me. Please." There's no response; John's eyes remain screwed firmly shut. The tension in his face is terrible. The end of his tongue is twitching, the flesh pierced by the skewers already beginning to swell, dark blood spreading outward from the punctures.

"Well, option. Just the one, really. You come with me."

Sherlock's mind casts about for any sort of anchor by which to make sense of the words, and founders. " _What_?"

"You. With me. You and I, Sherlock. The only way this ever could have ended."

Of all the things he could have said, Sherlock hears his voice shape itself around the most absurd: "But I— I'm not a quins." 

"Boring."

When Sherlock doesn't answer—he can't; he has none— Moriarty's shoulders drop forward. He turns, and John breathes out a harsh exhale as the knife falls away from his cheek. There's a faint pressure line on his cheek where the blade had pressed into the skin, but no blood. No blood.

Even with the threat removed, John neither drops his head nor eases the quivering tension in his body. Trying to hold his head upright against the forward curl of his shoulders forces his neck into an arc that leaves the delicate architecture of his throat exposed and vulnerable, thin skin stretched tight against the taut cording of tendon and the—oh, God—the fragile shape of his larynx.

Moriarty's voice is low, the words deceptively quiet. "Whyever would you think that?"

Sherlock shakes his head, not understanding, and tears his eyes away from the pale lines of John's throat to find Moriarty watching him through dark, half-hooded eyes. The sight threatens to send a shudder of revulsion through Sherlock's limbs, irrelevant and easily ignored. At least Moriarty is looking at him now. Looking at him, and not at John. It's not nearly enough.

Irene had told him so, hadn't she? But then John had returned early from Zurich, and— well. It seems Irene might see her favour repaid, after all. 

Moriarty's shoulders jerk. Sherlock reads the intention in the motion—to turn away; to turn back toward John—and the words tumble free of his mouth. "I— Godfrey. Why else would you want him?"

After a moment, the horrible tension slides from Moriarty's shoulders. A moment after that, the corner of his mouth curls up in a wry half-smile. When he speaks, his voice has returned to the incongruity of an easy tone. "I don't. He's worthless to me. Pay attention."

Sherlock's eyes jerk up, but Godfrey's hand, holding the barrel of the pistol still trained on the back of John's head, doesn't even waver. 

"Interesting stance to take, given he's the one holding the gun."

Moriarty laughs, a high, quick sound. "No, no, _no_. Wrong. You and your _incomplete picture_. I should have known you'd fall for that, too. It's your weakness; you always want everything to be _complicated_. But it's simpler than that, Sherlock. Much simpler. I'm not after quins, I'm after clever. And you _are_ clever." 

Clever. Sherlock certainly doesn't feel clever, just at the moment. None of this makes any sense.

John's fingers are clenching convulsively, small, jerky movements that are arrested by the unyielding surface of the chair, scrabbling at the wood as though they could claw through. Moriarty raises the knife and Sherlock thinks of those same fingers on his skin; of them gone still, finally, bloodless and pale as Sherlock's own.

"It's a funny thing about tongues," Moriarty says, turning back to John. "These days, I mean. Cutting them out is messy, but shortsighted." The blade touches lightly against the side of John's neck, just above the collar of his shirt. The point of the blade depresses the skin, just a bit, but doesn't quite break through.

Moriarty might be waiting for him to say something, but Sherlock's mouth is too dry to speak. His eyes track the point of the knife as it slides down, past the curve of John's wrenched shoulder, over the straining curve of John's upper arm. 

"No, tongues have been done to death, wouldn't you say?" When the knife reaches the dip on the inside of John's elbow Moriarty presses just hard enough for the point to puncture the fabric of John's shirt; the small tearing sound makes Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.

"Now, _thumbs_ ," Moriarty says, "those are much more interesting."

Sherlock finds just enough air to gasp out John's name, rough and uneven.

"I don't think he can hear you, do you?" Which is true; from mere inches away, Sherlock can see no indication that John has any awareness of the proceedings. "But don't worry. I'll make sure he knows you were the one who chose." 

"I— _choose_." The words are breathless, shapeless. The point of the knife is tracing along the delicate skin on the inside of John's wrist, playing between the raised pattern of his variant marker. Sherlock's ears are full of the roar of his own pulse.

"Now now, Sherlock, don't pretend to be stupid. It's a simple question: thumbs or tongue? I know which I'd pick, but then… you do seem to have found your uses for his tongue. Perhaps you'd like to keep it after all." 

Through the rushing vertigo of his heart plummeting past his stomach, through the soles of his shoes, Sherlock hears himself stammer, "I, no, I— I can't."

"You will, or I'll choose for you. And I'll give you a hint, Sherlock: I'd choose both. He'd be dependent on you then, you know. A proper pet. If you aren't going to cut yourself loose, I can make sure you're properly attached. He'd need you for everything, you'd have to stir his food for him, you—"

Seated in his chair, the window is at Sherlock's back. From the other side of the glass come the mundane sounds of central London at midnight: the hiss of tyres against the road, the occasional too-loud laugh of students on their way home from the pub. Utterly ordinary. How many nights has he sat in this chair, just like this, before rising to join John in bed?

(Just the once, like this, with John on his knees.

No. _No_.)

"Tongue," Sherlock says, or tries to; the word sticks in his throat, sharp and bitter with bile. He tries again. "God, his— his tongue." Even as he says it he wants to take it back, but— John without his thumbs is unthinkable. "Please."

Moriarty sits back on his heels and turns to regard Sherlock over his shoulder, the twist of his head uncomfortably serpentine.

"Oh, Sherlock," he says, voice low and dark with genuine enjoyment, "you are so _lovely_ when you dance for me." Moriarty comes back to the front of John's body with slow, languorous movements, as though he's doing something far more obscene than simply crossing a few feet of carpet on his knees. He extends the hand holding the knife until it's mere inches from John's mouth. Nothing in John's demeanour changes at all.

Sherlock's mind is unforgivably blank. John is going to lose his tongue, John might die, and all because Sherlock can't— 

"Another choice," Sherlock gasps out in a voice unrecognisable even to his own ears. "Another— me. I choose me."

Moriarty's wrist flicks out, drawing the blade across John's mouth. The blood that spills down John's chin is thin and wet and dark, too much all at once, and Sherlock can do absolutely nothing about the cry that forces its way up from his chest.

It isn't until the bright flare of panic fades from Sherlock's vision that he realises Moriarty has cut, not across the vulnerable still-extended tissue of John's tongue, but a jagged tear in the thick flesh of John's lower lip.

"I'm sorry," Moriarty says, utterly steady, as though there's nothing about this situation out of the ordinary; as though he's simply misheard. "What was that?"

John's head has dropped forward, the blood spilling from his sliced lip sheeting dark across his chin and throat, coalescing into heavy drops that fall to the carpet in front of his bent knees. His breath is coming in small, shaky bursts, his chest shaking so hard it must hurt the drawn-back wrench of his shoulders, but his eyes remain tightly closed and his cheeks are dry.

Sherlock's voice sounds small, half-choked. With a choice between steadiness and shaping his voice into a question, he chooses the former; he's past telling whether he manages it. "It's what you wanted, isn't it. You're after clever. I— I'll go with you. You can have me."

Moriarty hums, low in his throat. "Oh, Sherlock. _Now_ you're playing the game as it's meant to be played."

Sherlock's exhale shatters into fragments against the backs of his teeth until it becomes something very small and very sharp. It doesn't matter; there'd hardly been any air in his chest, anyway. John's head is still bowed; his whole body is shaking. Sherlock could— inches, mere inches and he could put his hand on John's skin. 

"Careful," Moriarty hisses. "Don't spoil it now."

Godfrey still has the pistol trained on the back of John's head. 

Such a small space they're all crowded into.

"I go with you." Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the quivering, swollen tip of John's tongue, still pinioned by the skewers pressing against his cheeks and chin, glossy with the blood pulsing from his torn lip. "I go with you, and what… what then."

"Come now, Sherlock, that would be _telling_." Moriarty's mouth stretches wide in a sudden, feral grin, no sooner there than gone. "Doctor Watson walks away. That's all I can tell you."

"And if I refuse?" There is no refusal, he knows—not now—but he has to ask.

"Then I remove his tongue, and his thumbs, and bring you with me anyway. I'd rather not do that, Sherlock. I really wouldn't." 

Sherlock allows his eyes to slide closed, just for a moment. The image that fills the darkness of his vision is of John, bled out on the floor of a classroom; his own voice in memory: _Why tongues? Why not thumbs?_

Moriarty's voice, curled tight with agitation, reaches him as though from a great distance. "Don't pretend you're like _them_ , Sherlock. I've seen you. I've seen how grey you are, every time you speak to him. You want them all to think it's salt and roses, but I've seen—"

And John. John, who can't hear him; who might not even be able to see him; John, with his tongue extended, with his tongue _gone_ , shivering while he chokes on his own blood.

"I go with you." The words press his tongue flat inside his mouth. "And John walks away."

Moriarty's eyes are heavy-lidded, the dark gleam of his irises so hungry it's nearly pornographic. "Of course. I'll even leave his friend with him, make sure he gets _taken care of_." A quick, high, breathy laugh. "Though I do rather think he likes it there."

The effort with which he forces his unwilling limbs into compliance is entirely irrelevant. In the end, Sherlock is standing on the carpet, his knees mere inches from John's still-extended tongue. John peers up at him, his eyes dull and glassy beneath the pale line of his lashes. They track Sherlock's movement, but slowly. The resignation in the way he's holding himself is unbearable.

Surreal. It's all utterly, irredeemably surreal.

Sherlock is still wearing his shoes. A lifetime ago, when he and John had returned home, Sherlock had expected to argue John into leaving. Anticipating John's departure, Sherlock had shored up the barrier of his own skin with cotton and leather and brass, the only armour he has ever understood.

It makes his departure now quicker, and no less difficult.

Moriarty rises from the carpet as though spring-loaded, practically bouncing on his heels. With an efficiency he cannot turn off, even now, Sherlock shrugs into his suit jacket—tempting as his coat is, the weather is warm enough that it will only attract attention—and slants one last quick look at John. The thought of leaving him as he is—leaving him at all—is a hollow ache in the centre of Sherlock's chest. 

Whole, he tells himself; I'm leaving John whole.

The sight of John bloodied, on his knees on the floor of their sitting room, still at bloody gunpoint, exposes the placation for the lie it is.

His throat is thick with half-formed words. Useless; John can't hear him anyway. Sherlock inhales through his nose, willing himself to hold them within the barrier of his skin, behind the wall of his teeth.

Moriarty's voice—too close to Sherlock's ear— is thick and dripping with feigned pity. "You could try leaving him a note. Or…" He kicks John's TID out from where it had slid beneath the armchair. 

The thought is so ludicrous that—in another lifetime, in which such things were still possible— Sherlock might very nearly have laughed. A note. What would he say? _I'm sorry_ , perhaps, but— he isn't. Not for leaving; or, rather, not enough to risk doing otherwise.

For the rest of it, he can think of no note that would suffice.

When Moriarty grinds his heel down against John's TID until the plastic shatters with a sharp, cracking sound, Sherlock can't even rouse himself to care.

He breathes, and waits. He can do nothing else. 

"No no, I insist," Moriarty says, after what may be a long time. "After you."

Sherlock has to close his eyes before he can turn away. His hand on the doorknob might as well belong to someone else; his descent to the street is slow to avoid being clumsy, his feet distant and ungainly. He counts the steps out of a habit that numbs rather than soothes.

_seventeen, sixteen_

That he doesn't fall is accident rather than design.

_three, two_

Sherlock is just about to touch his foot down on the bottom step when he's brought up short by Moriarty's hand on his shoulder.

"Now, Sherlock," comes the impossible (improbable) voice at his ear, "shall we finish the game?"

_one_

From upstairs, he hears the sharp report of a shot and the crack of shattering glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading along with this up to now. There's another story coming in this series (and probably more than that in the universe--I'm not kidding when I say I can't stop), but looking ahead to the real-life things on the horizon, I'd expect it to be a few months out.
> 
> One more giant thank-you to HiddenLacuna (who's been _so_ amazing and patient and wonderful throughout), and to Roane and TeaHigh and everyone who's read or listened to flail and whine or talked me down.
> 
> I'm still planning to do more commentary/process posts on this, since there's been some interest, so if you have any questions or anything you'd like to see addressed, please either send me an email (it's in my profile) or [drop by my ask box](http://thisprettywren.tumblr.com/ask) or just generally hunt me down somewhere.


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